


notes on fashion

by slowdown



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, THE FLAVOR, adora is a pop star, catra is a model, so model/pop star au, what if we chased our dreams and met again when we're both successful au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:00:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 51,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24944245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slowdown/pseuds/slowdown
Summary: In the private world of high fashion and paparazzi headlines, it's a practiced art to lose a piece of yourself in pursuit of more. It's made to be enticing like that. It's easy to ask for excess when all you had was less.And when it wears Adora down, breaks down her resolve, taking it apart and apart until there's nothing left, she meets her again.Catra."You need to learn how to be selfish. To take what you want." She trails a finger from her neck to her jaw. It's intimate. It'sdevastating. "Don't you want me, Adora?"
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra), Bow/Glimmer (She-Ra)
Comments: 419
Kudos: 1291





	1. an old flame

The first time Adora sees Catra again in five years, it went something like this:

There’s a singular spotlight gleaming down on her. She hovers her hands above the keys of her piano, a 1925 Steinway grand. It was the first instrument she ever played, sitting in the living room of her childhood home. It feels right to play it here back home, in the heart of New York City.

In front of thousands, Adora sits on the stage of a sold-out Madison Square Garden, but it shouldn’t be silent. It should be deafeningly loud, but all Adora could hear was white noise over the ringing in her ears.

She took out her headpiece before sitting down, wanting to hear the sound of her own playing on the speakers of the arena, rather than late feedback in her earphones. She’ll be doing a solo performance to open her band’s most popular hit. It was pop, full of syncopated rhythms and pulsing beats and saxophone notes as if it was a love letter to the ’80s.

She began by pressing her fingers on the black keys of the piano, aided by her left hand, which was splayed out on two keys on the lower octave. She played softly, almost caressing the piano, closing her eyes on the beautiful, wistful tune. It was a song she wrote on an old piano when she was in her closet-sized apartment in New York, alone with her roommate, with the vinyl player cracking every five seconds and laughter while pressing the wrong notes every measure.

It feels like the world slowed down for a second, for _her_ , the rotation of the earth moving at an unhurried pace like there was no axis to revolve around on, endlessly floating in the universe. Like it was listening to her, like every note had enough meaning for it to exist, to ring out in the arena for the listening crowd.

For a moment, the spotlight wasn’t a lamp encased in a frame, but the sun beating down on her — hot, unrelenting, but forgiving, saying _you were meant to be here, this is where you are supposed to be,_ as she is, isn’t she?

Her fingers dance around the keys, faint and familiar like an old friend, theory and rules etched so finely in the back of her mind, closing her eyes letting spontaneity take over. She starts moving faster, breaking pace and changing the soft tempo, aggressive but never pounding the keys, flying over the scales and taking the piece back to its home, slowing and slowing until she opens her eyes.

The world starts to move again and the spotlight lights down on her, in the world’s most famous arena with her best friends behind her, eyes searching the crowd for _something_ , or maybe someone.

And in the crowd, she sees her.

The unmistakable eyes watching her, blue and yellow. The muse of her daydreams and the skeleton in her closet. She’s looking at Adora like she knows her, unlike the thousands of fans in her vicinity, but like she _knows_ Adora, like how she likes her coffee in the morning but never in the afternoon, the feel of her skin when the rest of the world is sleeping and how she sounds under the covers and the lights are turned off, like she knows the weight in her bones and the neurons that pulse through her nerves and every single atom in them. She looks at Adora like she knows this song, the one she kept to herself for so long, hidden under her repertoire of music, waiting to be revealed like a dealer's hand.

She looks at Adora like she _knows_ her, and it’s because she does.

Enraptured by her stare, Adora presses the second-to-the-last note, an F sharp, but hovers her index finger on the last note, a C sharp, and doesn’t press down. They stare at each other, and if the lighting is just right, like it’s only them and the night and the music in their shared apartment in Park Avenue, but it’s not and she’s alone sitting on the bench without her.

When Glimmer and Bow begin clapping, the whole audience follows suit in applause. The moment is over and Adora’s in over her head, and all she can see is Catra, who stayed still in her seat while people stood up and cheered.

Looking away, Adora smiles and says a _thank you_ to the microphone. Her throat is dry and her voice is grating. She clears her throat and reaches on the top of the piano for a drink, draining the glass of ice water she placed on a whiskey coaster.

Bow begins to tap his drumsticks together, a simple countdown for the next song. Adora counts the tempo in her head, nodding her head along, nerves igniting her hands.

She ignores it.

She doesn’t look at that part of the arena until the concert is over.

**. . .**

“I see why you like them. They’re very good,” Scorpia says over the music, over Bow’s choppy techno beats, his steady low kick reverberating around the arena, over Adora’s bass synthesizer filling a steady hum in the background, complimenting Glimmer’s lead guitar.

“I don’t like them,” Catra says distractedly, “but they’re… good.” It’s loud, but she knows Scorpia heard her. She was always good at that.

There’s a loud _ping_ between them, and Scorpia reaches to the right pocket of her jeans for her phone, lighting up her face in the darkened arena.

“Entrapta messaged me. She says she’s performing around 10, and this ends around 11. I think we can take the subway and get there in like, twenty minutes? I’m not sure. But if we do, we can still catch up at the end of her set. We’re going to be late, but that’s cool… right? Fashionably late, as the kids say,” _Scorpia, you’re no older than twenty-three you dumb idiot,_ “Sounds good, wildcat?”

“Sounds good,” Catra repeats, only managing to get a few words out ever since this somewhat one-sided conversation began. And ever since _Adora_ had played that piece, a piece she wrote for _her_ , in front of thousands of people, having the gall to look at her in the eye as she played it, she couldn’t comprehend another thought.

“…Adora?” Scorpia asks, gently coaxing Catra out of her reverie, her eyes hinting at a level of concern like she always does. Her mouth is tilted to a small smile, encouraging but never pushing. Catra doesn’t know what to feel about that.

“What did you say?” Catra breathes out, unconsciously gripping the armrest tighter. She notices it immediately, relaxing her grip and unknotting her forehead. She blames it on the empty water bottle. She’s dehydrated. That must be why.

“I said, _did you want to see Adora_? I see the picture on your bedside drawer. I figured you two must be friends.” _I need to burn that picture frame_. “Wait. Does that mean we get to meet the rest of the band? I’ve never met a celebrity before. Do you think they’ll hate that I’m wearing Levi jeans? Do they prefer—”

“Scorpia, who can hate _jean brands_? Who looks at a pair of jeans and say, ‘I hate that,’ and exist? Get yourself together.” Catra looks away, her voice dropping like a low note on the bass, “And no. We’re not friends. Me and Adora, I mean. Not anymore.”

“Oh. Okay.” Silence falls over them. When the crowd goes a decibel level higher, they look up and see Adora going down the stage to take a rose from a fan. Catra looks and looks and _looks_ , as if she was trying to communicate something, but Adora doesn’t look up once. Not in her side of the crowd.

Catra notices she doesn’t look at their section of the arena anymore.

**. . .**

“Is anyone thinking of going out drinking tonight? Because I am,” Bow says as they enter the backstage. He’s exhausted and panting, winded up after a show as all performers do. His forehead is layered with a sheen of sweat, eyes crinkled in happiness as the crowd asking for a second encore echoes around the room.

“Sure. Where though?” Glimmer asks, taking the guitar off and handing it to a stagehand. She takes off her earpieces and hangs it on her neck, turning to face Bow.

“My friend Entrapta is performing at Stage 48 tonight. I’m pretty sure we can get VIP there unless you’re in the mood to drink at a quiet lounge or something?” Bow asks, his voice muffled by the shirt he’s using the wipe his sweat off. Adora crinkles her nose and mutters a _gross_ , throwing her unused towel to at his face.

“Let’s ask Adora. Adora, what do you think?” Bow and Glimmer turn to Adora, who’s in the middle of changing her shirt.

She pauses, and then says, “I think I'm in the mood to get wasted. Let’s go to that dance club."

“Great! That’s settled then. But first, go take a shower. The both of you stink. Meet me in Adora’s dressing room after.” Glimmer pushes them to the direction of the showers, Adora laughing and Bow letting himself get pushed.

**. . .**

The trip to the club was short. The subway was full for such a late time, but Catra doesn’t question it. It’s New York and no one ever sleeps in New York. It’s what keeps the city alive.

The club, aptly titled _Stage 48_ , was full of energy. It was like lightning waiting to thunder down and strike the surface, the mixture of tequila shots and disco flares and 808’s that could barely contain itself in the building. Catra didn’t want to enter the night to get wasted, but she entered the building intending to wake up tomorrow with no recollection of today.

“Woah. Slow down there, Catra. We should ask around if we can get to the second floor first. I think. I’m not sure. But it doesn’t hurt to ask, right?” Scorpia rambles, trailing after Catra as she heads straight to the bar.

“A dry vodka martini on the rocks, please,” Catra says as soon as she slips in the stool, eyes slowly adjusting to the purple neon lights around the bar. The stool is hard and uncomfortable, but the bartender is fast and her drink is placed in front of her in a few minutes.

She sips the drink and lets it sit on her mouth; closing her eyes and tasting the flavor. Crisp and cold, a hint of green on the clean palate of the vodka. If she closes her eyes, she’ll tether between a speakeasy in a grayscale society and a crowded nightclub with blinding neon lights and glittering disco balls. Her chain of thought breaks as—

“The bouncer gave us VIP passes for the second floor. V-I-P,” Scorpia spells out loud, laughing. “Can you believe it? I feel like a star. Not that I’m actually one, you know.”

“Yes, I _do_ know that, Scorpia. I’m sure anyone who got through college can tell the difference between a person and a burning ball of gas,” Catra says, holding her glass by the neck, letting drops of evaporation trail on her fingers, dropping to the floor.

“Eh,” Scorpia mumbles, ignoring Catra’s jab. “Let's go upstairs. My calves are starting to burn from standing all night.”

**. . .**

“Cool. I’m just chilling here. Um, alone. Which is very cool,” Adora says, thinning her lips. She’s uncomfortable, but the woman in front of her doesn’t know that.

(Only one person in the world does. Adora tries not to think too hard about that.)

“Really? I can think of other cooler things,” the woman says, hooking her index finger around Adora’s loop belt. Her eyes drop to her lips, and she grins, “that you could be doing.”

“That’s great, but I think I’d rather sit here. I’m pretty tired.” Adora stretches her right arm out, leaning further on the olive green couch she’s been sitting on for the past thirty minutes. She’s on the second floor. She’s not hiding but the location is obscure enough that someone has to _really_ look for her to be found.

“You’re too tense,” she murmurs. She’s pretty. Adora’s not blind enough to ignore that. She’s just not in the mood for a fling anytime soon. Or maybe ever. That doesn’t stop the woman, who is currently moving closer to her, feeling Adora’s strong shoulders. “I’ll make you relax. _Fuck_. You're—”

“—in my seat.” Adora and the woman look up at the interruption. Relief washes over her for the kind stranger… no. Not a stranger.

Catra.

She looks like she stepped out of a dream.

“Yeah! I was waiting for her.” Adora gently pries the woman’s hands off her shoulders and pushes her off her lap. She stands up, towering over the two of them. “We’d rather be alone now. Thanks.”

 _Thanks? What the hell, brain._ Adora shakes her head. The alcohol must be in her system. Speaking of alcohol, she takes her glass of scotch and downs it until the melting ice is all but left at the bottom.

The woman shoots Catra a glare and she shoots one right back. It’s so familiar, flashes of memories in a cardboard box, hidden in the nooks of her brain, resurfacing like worn pictures, dog-eared and sepia-toned, clearly loved. Adora supposes, maybe it was. And now they’re alone together, as silence washes over them.

“Well, you always had them fawning over you.” Catra takes a sip of her drink, and Adora watches the motions. Her eyes then drift away, not quite meeting Catra’s eyes. They’re treading on something familiar, under a blanket of blue. The feeling eases in. The scotch tastes different. The couch is a darker shade of green. The temperature goes down a few degrees.

“I haven’t seen you in a while. How… are things?” Adora takes a beige, cotton jacket, folded neatly beside her, and puts it on. She bought it when she was wine drink, feeling reckless and armed with a credit card.

“It’s very good.” There’s something in Catra’s eye, like a joke she hasn’t been let on. She can’t tell what it is. It’s a telltale sign that things aren’t what they used to be. “Never thought you’d be the type to wear designer.”

Adora almost scoffs but thinks better of it. It’s hard not to sink back to the drowning feeling of bitterness. It’s old and laden, burdened by the weight of what was once said and unsaid. “Things change over the years. I’m sure you’re not the same person I knew.”

Catra looks at her. She’s looking for something, Adora can tell. She knows that stare. Maybe it was an hour ago or in another lifetime. She becomes unearthed by the stare, a shovel digging through the patches of soil and mud, exposing the bedrock underneath. Like roots creeping into her skin, squirming and wiggling until they reach her heart. Adora tenses. She suddenly doesn’t want to stay. She takes a step forward.

“Adora.” Catra reaches out and captures her wrist in her palm. It’s soft and calloused. It should be impossible, but it isn’t. Catra was always this messy juxtaposition of things. Maybe that’s what fascinated Adora in the first place, spellbound like a card trick in a magic shop with trap doors and enchantments.

Time slows. Adora blinks. She slides her arm out of Catra’s grip. “What?”

“Why did you play it?” Catra’s hand falls back to her side. It accentuates the distance between them, whether it’s over the years or in the present, silently saying _this is the epilogue of your story, this is how far you’ve fallen apart_.

“Which one?” Catra’s eyebrows furrow at her indifference. Adora’s not stupid. She knows what Catra is talking about. She’s not ready for this conversation. It’s too raw.

“The solo you did. Why did— it's not…” Catra trails out. Something unfolds inside the moment. It’s honest and sincere. Adora can almost hear the unsaid question. _Why did you play it?_

Adora stays silent, looking down at her shoes. It’s expensive, she muses. Black, lined with leather. Handmade in Italy. It’s from a limited collection she forgot the name of. She doesn’t remember why she bought it.

“Adora! There you are. I thought you already went home.” Bow’s voice breaks through the growing tension. It seems easier to breathe. Somehow she’s in space and deprived of oxygen, and now she’s free-falling into the atmosphere. It’s a relief.

“Uh, no. I was catching up with an old… friend.” She smiles, forcing the corners of her mouth to reach her eyes. She hopes that the club is dim enough to hide it if she failed. She does a thumbs up and points it to Catra, who nods at Bow.

He raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t get the hint. “Catching up, huh? Well, we were looking if you caught yourself in some kind of trouble, but it seems like you’re doing just fine.” He turns around but cranes his neck to look at her one more time. “You get home safely, okay? Text us if you need anything.” He winks and drags Glimmer downstairs by the elbow.

Adora looks at Catra, who crinkles her nose. “Those are the people you replaced me with? Man, and I thought your music was betrayal enough.”

Adora laughs. The ice breaks and the world rights itself. The club is a firestorm, and they’re both in the middle of it. “It’s pretty good music if it can sell out arenas.”

“And so can _Trolls_.” Catra smirks at her. Adora resists the temptation to look down, knowing that Catra can tell. It was always like that with them.

“What do you mean by that?” Adora asks. Catra steps closer to her personal space. She’s under her skin, touching her bones. She’s New York and everything that comes with it, familiar alleyways and electricity that thrums, keeping the city alive and burning. It awakens something in Adora.

“Nothing,” Catra says, “What, did you think I meant anything by it?”

Adora squints at her, trying to figure it out. Catra doesn’t break the stare, a challenge presented, unyielding.

Adora steps back. “Well, I’m up early tomorrow. I’ll be going now.” She takes a few, brisk steps. It’s a test. But this time, Catra doesn’t stop her. She could feel her eyes on her back. Adora doesn’t look back. It’s symbolic in a way, like having wings but never flying close to the sun, drifting and drifting endlessly. Where, Adora doesn’t know yet.

When Adora gets outside, it’s silent. She’s not used to it. Her hands grip the lapels of her jacket closer. This March was cold. Snow dusts the lamppost, dimming the sidewalks, and the sounds of the club are muted. She’s wavering between distant waves of nostalgia and alcohol fueling her brain. She stumbles into the road, signaling her driver.

He smiles at her. It’s warm and sincere, for some reason. “Back to the hotel, ma’am?”

_Ma’am? When did she get used to that?_

Adora realizes that she should probably answer instead of staring at the window like an intoxicated idiot. Muttering a low _yes_ , the car begins to move. She dazedly watches the outside world as it begins to blur, streetlights and the quiet sounds of a radio talk show lulling her to sleep. She filters in and out. She’s tired.

Her head lolls and she sees a trench coat. _That’s a good-looking trench coat_ , she thinks. Her mind registers that she owns that trench coat seconds later, and she mutters a small _oh_ and picks it up. It feels like wool as she turns it around and looks at the tag. _Burberry_. A voice begins to speak in her mind, clear and loud, as if the owner of the voice was next to her.

_Never thought you’d be the type to wear designer._

She almost balls up the coat in her hand and throw it out of the window, but thinks better of it. Instead, she folds it neatly and places it on her lap. Restless with a heavy feeling, she tries to close her eyes, but her mind keeps repeating the events at the club.

She falls asleep in the limousine.

**. . .**

“That’s so dumb! Why would she do that?”

In the early morning, Bow, Glimmer, and Adora were settled in a van. They were heading to _The Music Building_ on 8th Avenue to record a last-minute song Adora had written, and their management wanted them to release it as their last single of the album.

It’s tiring, and they’re expected to finish the whole thing in three hours. After that, they’ll be heading to the Madison Square Garden again to do a short technical rehearsal, countless meet-and-greets, a Q&A portion, and then— it’s a lot. Adora’s brain isn’t too functional in the morning.

Bow was showing Glimmer something on his phone, the two of them laughing. Adora slouches in her seat. She closes her eyes for a moment and opens it to see Bow and Glimmer looking pointedly at her.

“Yeah?” Adora asks, feeling a tinge of self-consciousness. “Is there something on my face?”

“You’re being weird,” Glimmer says, leaning forward. She opens the flashlight in her phone and shines it on Adora, scrutinizing her face. Adora waves it away, laughing nervously.

“You’re right, Glimmer. I just can’t tell what or why,” Bow adds.

“Did something happen last night?” Glimmer asks, face contorting, “I thought Bow told you to text us if something went wrong!”

“I’m fine,” Adora says, emphasizing the _fine_ , drawling it out, “It’s not—”

“Was it the girl you were catching up with last night? Who was she?” Bow asks, looking more curious.

“Does it even matter?” Adora rebuts, waving her hands up.

“She looks _so_ familiar. I feel like I’ve seen her somewhere before,” Bow says.

Glimmer puts back her phone in her pocket, leaning back. She crosses her arms. “Did something happen last night?”

“Nothing happened,” Adora deadpans, and Glimmer nods. Adora sighs again. “I know you guys are worried, but I swear it’s nothing. Just woke up on the wrong side of the bed, that’s all.”

Bow and Glimmer look thoroughly unconvinced, but they drop the subject. Glimmer puts a hand on Adora’s shoulder, squeezing it. They smile at each other.

“I know just the thing to cheer you up! Bow and I will buy you that obscure chocolate bar you like in the vending machine backstage when we get to MSG,” Glimmer says, a sparkle in her eyes. “The most famous arena in the world. I still can’t believe this is our life.”

“Aw, Glimmer!” Bow exclaims, wrapping an arm around her. Glimmer leans to his touch, and Adora raises an eyebrow as she watches the interaction. She keeps her mouth shut.

 _This is where I’m supposed to be,_ Adora thinks. _Right next to them._

She ignores the nagging feeling in the back of her mind.

**. . .**

They don’t meet again. Not immediately, at least.

Months later, Adora is backstage at the _Versace_ ’s Spring-Summer 2020 Fashion Show. She’s not a fan of fashion, but she’s here to support her friend, Perfuma, who designed some of the collection. She hadn’t had a chance to congratulate her because when she walked in, two models immediately recognized her and asked for a picture together.

“I love your blazer,” one of the models says, blonde and taller than her, feeling up her shoulders. “Is it custom-made?”

She’s not entirely sure. Two days ago, Angella Brightmoon, Glimmer’s mom and their manager, set an appointment for the band at the _Versace Mansion_ to do fittings. Apparently, it was a formality when sitting in the front rows in these kinds of shows.

Scratching the back of her head, Adora says, “I think it was only tailored to fit my size.”

“Oh, really?” The other model asks, looking at her up and down. Adora stays silent and nods. Her energy is slowly draining, from the coffee machine in her hotel room not working to the constant press on the way to the venue and people asking for pictures in every direction she went. She thinks she went a little blind, actually.

“Adora!” At the mention of her name, she cranes her neck and looks behind, seeing Glimmer walking over to her. “We’ve been looking all over for you! It’s starting in an hour, and the models have to do their model things, so stop flirting around and come on!”

“But I wasn’t flirting,” Adora protests and lets herself be dragged back to the seats around the runway. The models give a wave before she leaves and one of the models place a paper in her hand, written on it was her number. She puts it in her pocket and leans back on the chair. She closes her eyes and relaxes, but not a minute passes when she feels a gentle tap on her shoulder.

“Hi, I’m a big fan of your music! I went to your show in Boston a few weeks ago, it was _amazing_. I love your album, I keep it on repeat every day!”

Adora smiles and forces it to reach her eyes. She’s exhausted, but it doesn’t matter though.

She lets it be.

**. . .**

The women walking down the runway are _gorgeous_. They were born for this and they want to prove it. It was in the casual, sleek confidence they hold and the mixture of glamour and sensuality that no one in the room could deny.

The theme reminds Adora of green tropical islands and orange-pink flowers that bloom in parks in London. She could see the touches of Perfuma throughout every dress and suit the women wore with the poise of a ballerina in a play; all strong shoulders and steps light as a feather.

Bow was filming it on his Instagram story; she could hear his commentary, aided by Glimmer. While she cares about looking decent, she didn’t know much about the accents and textures and sharp geometric lines in fashion. Pulling out her phone, she opens Twitter and scrolls through her feed. She’s about to go to Instagram when—

“Oh my god, Adora!”

“Yeah?” The pictures load and she double-taps a picture from their band account.

“Adora.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll watch your story.”

“No, it’s not about that,” Bow presses his palm to his face, groaning. “ _Adora_.”

“Bow.”

“Adora!”

“What?” Adora says and looks up. Her eyes widen.

It feels like the world slightly tilts. Her mouth dries and her chest ignites like kerosene on a match, burning patches on her skin and her heart waits to be found. Her lungs seem like it forgot how to breathe, but it expands to three streets and the corner around her old apartment, a lease due in a month.

She knows what she sees, but it’s like she can’t comprehend it.

Catra.

A model.

She’s a _model_.

Wearing a sinfully form-fitting dress with a low, sharp cleavage which ends a few inches below her hips. The dress is made of black and green metal mesh, displaying intricate leaf patterns, and is accentuated by her slim waist and the way she held herself. She wore gold jewelry, earrings and bracelets and necklaces that were created only for her, elegant without needing to try. Adora may be biased, but Catra stood out from the models by the way she held her head high, wearing towering heels with straps that slither up her legs like vines.

Hips swaying, her eyes are haughty and playful, lips bordering to a smirk. She looks neutral and composed, but Adora knew her too well for that.

And if it’s her mind playing tricks on her, she doesn’t know. Adora swears that when Catra passed her by, she _winked_ at her, knowing full well what she’s doing.

Head reeling, her brain could only comprehend one thought: maybe she _could_ get into fashion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wrote this bc there is not enough musician and fashion aus in this world and that's a travesty
> 
> and yes let's just have suspension of belief for this or have catra as 5'4 in this fic. short people representation
> 
> but thank you sm for reading! i'd love to hear what you think!


	2. scenes from an italian restaurant

Fame is not an inconsequential thing. The whole process is obsession; the rise, the invincibility, and the eventual fall. It’s a ghost breathing down on your neck, wringing your soul dry until you’re on your knees, looking at a hollow version of yourself in the mirror.

It’s _terrifying_.

Adora knows the consequences of fame before she had it. The stories are laid bare in front of her, written in the tabloids that pass and the headlines that shine. She swore to never take advantage of it.

This is the reason she’s trying to justify how she ended up in the models’ general dressing room. For the third time.

(And how it only took a signature for the bouncer and ten pictures with the models she came across.)

“Adora?”

Catra.

Hearing the familiar voice, she exhales and turns around. Catra is in a fluffy white robe, her face still full of makeup. She raises an eyebrow, and— and suddenly there’s an incline on the hardwood floor, the mirrors around them catches fire, and the gravity shifts and the altitude drops. Adora’s mind is reeling.

“What are you doing here?” Catra asks. It’s a thread they’re spinning and weaving, creating fabric out of the words they choose. It looks bleak.

“Uh,” Adora stumbles, not knowing what to say, “I’m here to congratulate Perfuma.”

“The designer?” Catra scrunches her nose. “Well, she’s somewhere here. Definitely not in the models’ dressing room.”

“Yeah,” Adora says.

She’s not really here to congratulate Perfuma and she knows it. She doesn’t make a move to leave.

Catra knows, of course, she does. Adora wears her heart in her sleeve whenever she’s with her. _I still think about you in gentle rain or in a morning sunrise,_ it tells her. It tells her the things she can’t say.

Catra crosses her arms. Adora can feel her heartbeat against her own ribs. “Why are you really here?”

Adora looks away. She can’t look at Catra when she’s like this. She feels vulnerable and exposed.

“You looked good earlier. Really good,” Adora says. The confession seems heavier than it should be. It burns red hot in the dark, like how meteor showers and asteroids and comets revolve around the orbit. There’s stardust falling around them. They ignore it.

Disappointment fills her veins, her shoulders fall, and frustration hammers in her chest when Catra doesn’t offer a response. She stares at Adora. There’s a dark abyss and lightning that splits the sky and whirlpools in narrow waters in her eyes. It feels hollow.

“Is that it?”

Adora stops. She closes her eyes and musters the courage to turn around.

“I… I wanted to talk to you,” Adora admits in a whisper. They’re on the edge of a cliff. The waves roll beneath her, the clear blue water surfacing to touch her skin. She feels like she can fall. There are things left unsaid — _I wish things didn’t have to be this way_ or _I still see you in the crowd of a show, in my skin before I fall asleep_ — she can’t. Won’t.

“About what?” There’s emotion in Catra’s voice. It’s hard and unrelenting.

“About… anything,” Adora says, caught in a rock and a hard place. Her throat closes up, a betrayal of her own kind. “Everything.”

“It’s too late for that,” Catra answers. Her voice is weary and quiet, like the eye of the storm.

“Better late than never,” Adora murmurs, hope gathering together like smoke. It’s the warning of a wildfire. She doesn’t care. Adora will burn, burn, burn like the volcanoes and become ashes for Catra.

“I can’t believe you,” Catra says, finally looking away. “You’re too much.”

“You were really good tonight. I mean it,” Adora pushes on. “I want you to know that.”

They stare at each other, unblinkingly. They’re basking each other in. It’s their first good look at each other in five years, not in a stage, not in a runway, not in a club under the influence of alcohol. Somewhere in the distance, the sun bursts in a solar flare, the planets drift from their orbits, and a black hole stays still.

This is how the past led them, in different paths that laid ahead and followed, worn and lost, back to each other.

(It seems like fate.)

“Catra, we’re taking a group picture!” A voice yells, breaking the moment. Catra turns and looks back at Adora, about to leave but—

If they’re here at this moment, maybe it’s the universe telling her something. She can’t let Catra go like that again. She can’t wait for months to buy a front-row seat to another fashion show, hoping she’ll see Catra again. Her heart can’t take it.

“Can we meet somewhere tomorrow?” Adora asks.

To her utmost surprise and defiance of her low expectations, Catra nods. “I’ll text you.”

Adora watches Catra as she turns around, but she remembers something and says, “Wait!” Catra looks back at her. “You still have my number, right?”

Catra gives her a small smile, the first one she gives Adora in years. Then, she watches Catra walk away. This time, she doesn’t feel a weight in her shoulders.

It feels lighter.

**. . .**

Adora wakes up alone.

The room is unfamiliar. It feels cold and distant. She’s in the _Armani_ executive suite in Milan for Fashion Week.

Daybreak slips through the blinds, making her cover her eyes with her hands. The duvet is at her feet and the pillows are thrown around the bed, one at the floor. She must have moved a lot in her sleep.

Groaning, she lays down. She’s about to fall asleep again, breathing deeply and holding one of the pillows closer to her. She’s a step into the dream world when her phone _dings_.

She reaches to her right, blearily opening her eyes and looking at her messages. She blinks. It’s a text from Catra. It’s a shock to her system, like surfacing from the ocean after diving deep. Like thunder on a clear day.

Sitting up, her thoughts become more coherent, and memories flood in from last night.

Alcohol in her senses. Flashes of cameras that blur together and red carpet walks. Catra on the runway. Meeting up with Perfuma in the lobby. Catra agreeing to meet up again. Paparazzi swarming her as she leaves the after-party. Catra looking effortlessly gorgeous.

_so,_ the text begins. _i’m free at lunch._

**cool,,**

**do you want me to pick you up at your hotel?**

_sure_

_sending you the address_

_i’m at bulgari hotel milano_

**i’ll be there :)**

**. . .**

“Are you serious? What are you wearing?” Catra asks, holding back a laugh. There’s a glint in her eye, her mouth suppressing a smile that threatens to escape.

“I thought the trench coat was a nice touch,” Adora says, trying to pull an offended face.

(Okay, so _maybe_ Adora knows her outfit is ridiculous, and _maybe_ she did choose the most embarrassing clothes to get a reaction from Catra. It was worth the humiliation, walking down the streets of Milan just to see Catra’s eyes shining with mirth at her lack of shame.

Adora can’t feel an ounce of regret.)

“It looks dumb.” Catra pinches the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes. “The damn trench coat.”

Adora gasps, and asks as seriously as possible, “Are you making fun of my _Burberry_ trench coat?”

“Yes. It’s awful. Terrible,” Catra says, face scrunching up in disbelief. “I’m totally regretting this.”

“No! I can put this back in the room if you’re serious. Do you want me to?” Adora asks, earnest.

Catra purses her lips. She looks at Adora’s outfit, examining it. Every vein under her skin lights up in response. “Fine. The trench coat can stay.”

“Generous.” Adora grins. “What are _you_ wearing? It’s like you want to get caught by the paparazzi. Here,” she says as she takes a dark red beret in the inside pocket of her trench coat and offers it to Catra.

Catra looks at the beret, a blank expression on her face. Maybe Adora didn’t think this through.

“In what world,” Catra starts, making a motion to her outfit, “does a beret compliment a leather jacket?”

“In the world of fashion!” Adora exclaims, grinning.

“Don’t tell me you brought this just to make me wear it,” Catra grumbles, taking the beret off Adora’s hand and puts it on.

“Oh, wow.” Adora stares. “You pull the look off.”

Catra finally offers her a smile. Adora’s heart skips a beat. It goes away before anyone else could see it. “Where are we eating? I’m starving.”

Without an answer, Catra walks a few steps in front of Adora. It was midday, and the sun strikes Catra in a way that leaves an afterglow. Maybe they were on the right side of the street or maybe because it was a Saturday and the taste of spring lingers in the distance, waiting but restless. Maybe Adora wishes she was the sun, her warmth unfolding in Catra’s back and stroking her hair. Maybe Adora thinks too much.

Catra turns around and raises an eyebrow. Adora’s clearly caught and they both know it. She shrugs and keeps pace with her.

“It’s a twelve-minute walk from here. Do you want to hail a taxi?” Adora asks, tucking her hands in her pockets.

It’s not that she doesn’t trust her hands not to move on their own. It’s that she cannot unlearn what she already lived. If she blinks, she’ll see afternoons skating in Central Park, the high-rise skyscrapers in the summer skies, reading in the corner of New York’s library in preparation for their finals, watching the pictures and clothes leave the walls of their apartment, being alone for the first time in years—

“Adora?” Catra looks at her, a question in her eyes.

Adora offers her an apologetic smile. “Sorry. What did you say again?”

“I said I’d rather walk. You spaced out,” Catra says, looking ahead.

After that, their walk is mostly spent in silence. It wasn’t gnawing or uncomfortable. It was like a seed planted in an empty garden, waiting and wanting to grow.

Maybe Adora will let it bloom.

**. . .**

The restaurant is small; hidden. It looks comfortable on the outside, but as soon as the doors open, a waiter greets them by name and ushers them to the dining area. It’s grand with an old-fashioned feel, classic with a modern style. It’s almost impressive.

They go past the main dining room, the waiter opens a door and they’re presented with a singular table with a large view of Milan’s streets. Sunlight peeks in, leaving behind a presence of warmth. It’s discrete and private, nearly perfect.

Adora pulls out the chair for Catra, who quirks an eyebrow. Adora feels her face heat, one of her old habits. The waiter doesn’t say a word, he only sets their table and tells them he’ll come back in a moment. When the waiter shuts the door, the world is a room away from them.

“I didn’t know you like these fancy restaurants, Adora. You continue to surprise me every day,” Catra says as her eyes skim through the menu. “Where are the prices? I’d like to pay half.”

“I’ll pay for it,” Adora says, picking up the menu. It’s in Italian, and Adora doesn’t recognize the names on the list. “There’s nothing I won’t do for you, Catra. You know that.” She shuts her mouth immediately. Her cheeks flame, red-hot and scalding. She needs to hold her tongue better. _It was going so well,_ she scolds herself.

The table falls silent.

It’s almost unbearable, like getting too close to the sun or not knowing how far the wooden trails go. Time moves slower. Each second, the silence stretches. Adora’s heartbeat pulses in time with the seconds, anticipation and frustration leaking.

“I don’t understand it,” Catra whispers, looking blankly at the words on the menu. “Why?”

“I think it’s in Italian—”

“Why are we doing this?” She looks up from the menu and meets Adora’s eyes. Adora’s throat feels dry, and swallowing is painful. She can’t get herself to look away. It seemed so easy earlier, but it seems like it was all a ruse. A moment of reprieve.

Adora opens her mouth but the waiter enters the room. _Oh, right. Their order._ “Do you want to start with an appetizer? A drink, maybe?”

Adora looks at Catra, who’s still staring at her. “Uh, you want anything, Catra?”

Catra closes the menu and crosses her legs nonchalantly. It’s cool and effortless, and it reminds Adora every bit of how modeling looks so good on her. “I’ll have your bestseller and vermouth. Thank you.”

“I’ll have the same with a San Pellegrino.” Adora smiles at the waiter, who nods and takes their menus. When he leaves the room, they’re back to where they are.

“I really missed you. That’s all,” Adora says, honest and sincere. She had said too much, too much to not say it all. It comes crashing, expected and unexpected like avalanches in mountains and car crashes in highways.

Catra looks down at the tablecloth. She shakes her head. “Why are you acting like you still care?”

“I do.” Adora purses her lips, furrowing her eyebrows. “I care about you.”

Catra scoffs. She leans back on the chair, velvet and plush. “You didn’t even _know_ I modeled.”

“I was busy!” Adora exclaims, gripping the armrest of her seat tighter. There’s panic in her chest. This is why they warn you about natural disasters; about velvet ditches and glacier caves and canyon moons. There’s something beautiful and tragic in life, the abject horror of it all.

“ _Busy_. I think I heard that before,” Catra says, glaring at Adora. Confrontation is inevitable, they both know that. Their past will always haunt their present. There are traces of their memories in their skin, the bedsheets and sunlight peeking through the blinds in a now-empty apartment committed to memory.

“That’s low, even for you.” It’s familiar, the argument. It’s about falling and falling until they reach the center of the earth, until there’s no heights to fall from. It’s heartbreaking. Catra’s about to say something when—

The waiter comes in, holding three dishes on a platter in one hand, and their drinks in another. It’s an intermission, some minutes of daylight in their never-ending darkness, memories that seem to hide in the dark corners, springing out in all angles. It’s relentless. It’s tiring.

The waiter places the dishes in front of them and Adora’s stomach drops. _The portions are so tiny._ She looks up at Catra, who seems to have the same thought, but doesn’t show her surprise.

“What you’re seeing in front of you,” the waiter motions to the dish set in the middle of the table, “is salmon chocolate,” Adora’s eyes bulge out, “ricotta cheese with nuts, pistachio with…” Adora begins to tune him out. He’s explaining their dishes — her meal consists of a special kind of raw meat and black truffle on it with a side of salad. Catra’s meal is steamed prawns with seaweed, seasoned with spices that Adora can’t name. She smiles at the waiter when he leaves.

The silence comes back with a force that threatens to turn the room around. The tension is eating away at their bodies, like the weight of the conversation could bury them alive and trap them in a crystal aegis. Their past is carved in their minds, saying _you’ll never forget me, no matter how much you try to erase it._

Adora chuckles. It sounds dry and forced. She clears her throat. “I feel like this can barely fill my stomach.”

Catra looks at Adora’s plate. “We could always order more. I’ll pay,” Catra says, moving her gaze back to her. Her gentle words seem like an intense contrast to their earlier conversation. It leaves Adora confused. Catra was always a mystery to her.

“I’ll… I’ll be fine,” Adora answers. She takes a sip of the San Pellegrino. It tastes bitter.

Catra nods and picks up her fork, taking a piece from the plate in the middle of the table. “I’ve never heard of salmon chocolate on,” she inspects the food, “a cube of bread, but I guess things are just different in Italy.”

Adora makes the same motion and takes the piece with the nuts and cheese, and shoves it in her mouth. “It’s not bad.”

“You’re paying. You’re supposed to like it,” Catra says. It’s supposed to be a remark, but there’s a lingering truth to it. She’ll pay the outrageous price ten times over as long as Catra would be here, next to her. It’s the truth that isn’t overwhelming as it should be, the kind that should make her stomach lurch and make her leave the room. It’s the truth that has always been there and Adora knows it.

They finish their meals, not before Adora leaves a massive tip, and end up at a small, relatively empty place called _Chicken Hut_. Adora’s eating two burgers while Catra watches her, nibbling at her sandwich wrap, for a price Adora doesn’t even look twice at.

Catra doesn’t bring up the past anymore, and Adora doesn’t try to make conversation. They’re sitting in silence, but it’s the most calm the two have been the entire time. It’s broken when they hear a woman say, “Just walk up to them.”

When Adora turns around, hand halfway to shoving an absurd amount of fries to her mouth, a little kid walks up to her. Blond hair and bright eyes. They remind her of herself.

“Miss Adora?” They’re shy and withdrawn, but Adora smiles at the kid. She doesn’t see it, but Catra watches their interaction closely, a fist under her chin.

“You can just call me Adora,” she chuckles. “What can I do for you, kiddo?” They walk slowly towards her, tentative and questioning, but all traces of unsureness leaves when Adora reaches out a hand to them.

“May I take a picture with you?” They ask, and Adora nods. She didn’t notice, but their mom was already behind them, taking her phone out of her pocket.

They take the picture, Adora’s hand on the kid’s shoulder. When they finish, the kid immediately turns around and hugs her. Adora closes her eyes and returns it. She whispers, “What’s your name?”

“Finn.” Adora opens her eyes and smiles at the kid.

“You know where you got it from?” Adora asks, looking absolutely engrossed in the conversation.

“My momma told me it was my grandpa’s name. I don’t like it,” they whisper the last part, leaning closer to Adora.

“Well, it’s a cool name. You know what that means?” Adora motions Finn even more closely to her. She whispers in their ear, saying, “It means you’re cool too.”

“I’m cool?” Finn asks. _They’re so cute,_ Adora thinks. “Is she cool too?” Finn motions to Catra, who looks surprised at being included in the conversation.

Adora looks at Catra, but her eyes are warm and fond, and there’s something there Adora can’t explain. It’s a lie. She knows deep inside what the expression means.

(She’s seen it when she was seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen. It’s spread out through the years, but Adora can still remember it like it was yesterday.)

“Yeah. She’s very cool. Even cooler than me,” Adora says, winking at Finn. Finn glows.

“Is she your girlfriend?” Finn asks, and it takes Adora by surprise.

“Um, no.” She laughs nervously. “We’re just friends.”

“She’s very pretty.”

“Yeah,” Adora doesn’t know if she’s crossing a boundary she shouldn’t, but she says it anyway. “She’s beautiful.”

It feels like it went on far longer, Finn asking Adora questions enthusiastically and Adora answering with the same passion, but it was only for a few minutes. Finn’s mother interrupts them soon enough and Adora waves goodbye at Finn.

She’s still smiling when she turns to Catra, who’s looking at her. She wasn’t smiling with her mouth, but Adora could see the traces of delight in her eyes. Adora decides not to comment on it.

“Sorry. I didn’t want to ignore you or something. It just happens,” Adora says, but Catra shakes her head.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” Catra answers, waving her off.

“Do you want to get milkshakes?” Adora asks, tidying up their table and folding the paper wraps and napkins.

Catra makes an apologetic face. “I’m actually doing a show tonight, and I have to be there in two hours.”

Adora returns to reality — one where they’re not college graduates in a vacation in Italy, but a pop star and a model with responsibilities and obligations, running on a schedule. “Oh,” she says dumbly. “Well. I had a good time.” _Kind of._

“Okay.” Catra pushes away from the table, standing up. “Thanks for paying.”

“Anytime,” Adora says. Does she hug her? Do they shake hands? She doesn’t know where the boundaries lie. She doesn’t want to cross it.

Silently, Catra offers a hand. Adora stares at it, then at Catra. She seems to have stared on far longer because Catra starts withdrawing her hand, but Adora grasps it. She stands up and pulls Catra to her, and the nearness of her feels so _familiar_. Catra’s arms freeze mid-air, but she slowly wraps her arms around Adora. It’s overwhelming. Catra’s everywhere, slinking in the walls of the restaurant, her reflection on every mirror, in every picture taken and in every runway.

It feels like a truce.

**. . .**

A month passes. Their schedule is full, and they meet exactly twice, a week in between their meetings. One, in the Grand Central Terminal in New York, eating hotdogs for lunch and walking around with ridiculous disguises on. The second on Manhattan Beach in California, looking at the lavender horizon in the pier, finishing a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in a brown paper bag.

Catra slowly slips into her world again, orbiting around her, her face appearing in the clouds and in every kind of weather, whispering in the winds and finding her again.

(But with all the history between them—

They don’t talk about the past.)

And now, Adora looks at herself in the mirror. She’s been checking her watch for the time obsessively, but time can’t move any faster than it should, no matter how much Adora wills it to be.

“You’re Adora Grayskull. You can _do_ this.” She points at herself in the mirror, furrowing her eyebrows. She’s been staring at her own reflection for quite some time now.

She starts with a boxer’s stance, slightly bending her knees and bringing her fists up to her chin. She does a jab and then a cross, making _woosh_ and _foop_ sounds. After that, she bounces on the balls of her shoes, shaking her head and wringing her hands out. She’s a little bit nervous.

“Get. Yourself. Together.” She stretches her neck around, saying, “You’ve performed in front of thousands. You’ve walked a million red carpets. You’ve…” Adora pauses. She’s coming up blank. She blinks and stares at the mirror dead-on. “You are hot. Yeah, I said it. You are hot—”

“Adora?”

Heart leaping to her throat, she straightens her back and turns around. Bow and Glimmer are at her door, holding a bottle of wine. They both look fascinated and horrified at the same time.

“I wasn’t… it’s not what you think,” Adora says. Bow and Glimmer continue to stare at her, without a word.

Adora swallows. She puts her hand to her eyes and rubs it, taking a deep breath and letting it out, wavering a bit.

“Adora…” Glimmer starts, but Adora interrupts.

“Bow! Glimmer! Uh, what’s hanging?” Adora sounds desperate and embarrassed. She laughs awkwardly. _Oops._ She looks around the room, unable to look at her friends in the eye. _How much have they heard?_

“We were going to ask you if you wanted to join us for a movie night…” Bow says, grimacing. “But you’re clearly busy! Well, Glimmer and I will be—”

“Helping you!” Glimmer exclaims, shoving the bottle of wine at Bow’s chest and walks to Adora’s room. “Where are you going?”

“I shouldn’t have given them the key,” Adora mumbles under her breath. She sighs. She’s not getting out of this. “I’m going out tonight with Catra. She invited me to one of her parties.”

“Catra? The model?” Glimmer asks, confusion etched on her face. Her eyes widen. She gasps. “Are you two…?” She makes a scissor gesture with both of her hands and then interlocking it.

“Glimmer! That’s _obscene_ ,” Bow says, slapping Glimmer’s hand. Adora almost laughs at how Bow looks genuinely offended.

“I’m sorry! But are the two of you,” she drops her voice to a whisper, looking around like she’s saying a secret, “hooking up?”

“Why are we whispering?” Adora asks, her voice quiet as well. Bow shakes his head.

“Glimmer, let’s just help Adora in her mid-life existential crisis that she’s clearly going through. She’ll tell us about her love life when she’s ready.” Bow puts an arm around Glimmer, who relents.

“It’s not an existential crisis,” Adora mutters in reply.

“Uh-huh, and watching paint dry is interesting,” Bow says, crossing his arms. Adora narrows her eyes on him.

“Anyway!” Glimmer cuts in. “So you were saying things in the mirror—”

“Can we never mention that please—”

“—because you’re going on a date with Catra. You’re nervous, aren’t you?” Glimmer asks, amusement in her eyes, excitement coloring her tone.

Adora purses her lips. “We aren’t going on a date. But I am… nervous?” She exhales deeply. “Wow. That was so hard to say.”

“A problem that can be easily fixed.” Glimmer sighs and forces Adora to look at herself in the mirror. “Look at you! You’re _People’s_ Sexiest Woman Alive in 2018. You’re wearing a custom _Saint Laurent_ fit. They made that only for you,” she says, pointing Adora in the chest. “You didn’t even ask for it! And you are not hot, you’re—”

“A succubus!” Bow exclaims, spreading his hands wide.

“Not exactly what I wanted to say,” Glimmer side-eyes Bow, “but it drives the point home. You’re Adora Grayskull. No one compares to you.” Glimmer purses her lips. “Except for me, I guess.”

Adora laughs, pulls Glimmer and Bow in for a hug. “I appreciate the ego boost. I’m feeling a bit better now that you guys are here.”

“That’s right! If things ever go south, just remember you still have us.” Bow does a little _whoop_ , raising the bottle of wine in celebration.

“Yeah. But we have another problem,” Glimmer says, looking Adora up and down, “Adora, are you seriously still keeping your hair in a ponytail?”

“I agree. You should put it down.” Bow nods along in agreement. Glimmer takes her hairband and pulls it gently, letting Adora’s hair fall down to her shoulders and back.

“Now that’s _hot_ ,” Glimmer comments, smiling at Adora.

Adora only looks down shyly, trying to keep a smile off her face from her friends’ appreciative stares.

She feels so lucky to be stuck with them.

**. . .**

Adora and Catra end up on the penthouse’s private rooftop, watching over the city’s skyline.

There’s no place like New York. The soul of the city creeps in your skin, in your bones, until your heart pulses along with the city that never sleeps. The moon hovers above them, controlling the night like it controls the oceans. The atmosphere is dark and dirty, red cups overfilled and camera flashes that blind.

They sit at the end of the infinity pool, their legs dangling over the edge. It’s not as terrifying as it should be— it’s _exhilarating_. They’ve been here for hours, drinking and dancing and talking. They’re young and exhausted. They have the right.

“This party...” Adora trails off. Her mouth hangs slightly open, brain fizzling out and her vision starting to blur. A bar that serves free drinks is a dangerous adversary. Adora doesn’t try to fight it.

“Yeah,” Catra agrees, looking out to the skies. Adora looks up as well. _There are no stars tonight,_ she muses. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but she feels a pang of longing and yearning for something she never had. Like she lost something. She doesn’t understand the feeling. She waves it off.

Adora redirects her stare to Catra. She hopes she doesn’t mind. She swallows, looking down at Catra’s throat and down below her neck. They’re out in the open. The temperature is high and she’s drunk but it’s like the night is singing for them and only them.

She opens her mouth but decides to close it. She can’t stop staring. There’s a line she’s crossing, Adora thinks. But it’s been a while since she allowed herself to stare at someone so openly. It’s nice to indulge in it sometimes.

(But even if Catra isn’t watching, there are eyes everywhere— rumors that spread.

There’s truth in rumors. That’s why they start.)

“Do you want to get out of here?” Catra asks. She’s still watching the sky like she’s waiting for answers. Maybe she doesn’t want to look at Adora. Maybe Adora will see something Catra doesn’t want her to see. Maybe Adora will always wait.

“Where?” Adora sets down the red cup in her hand. Inside it is tequila and something else. _It’s so strong,_ she thinks as she tries to stand up but stumbles.

“Somewhere away from here.” Catra stands up, more gracefully than Adora had. She begins to walk off, prompting Adora to follow. She tries to keep her stare at Catra’s shoulder.

“I’m too drunk for this,” Adora says. Her steps waver but she tries to keep her face and composure neutral. They’re in public, visible in people’s eyes.

“You coming or whining?” Catra asks, looking back at her with an eyebrow raise.

Adora lets out a small laugh. “Where else would I go?”

Catra’s mouth quirks into a small smile at her answer.

She doesn’t say a word.

**. . .**

They’re awake past midnight, and the two of them end up wandering down the cobblestone paths of Lower Manhattan. The half-hour walk to the pier sobered them up, but Adora still trips on some rocks, and Catra still slurs her first words in a sentence. There’s no one around. There’s no one to hide from.

Adora could feel tiny droplets of rainfall on her shoulder. “Catra, I think it’s starting to rain,” Adora says, extending her arm, the scent of rain in the distance.

“Are you _scared_ of getting wet?” Catra asks, raising an eyebrow at her. She looks beautiful here, Adora muses. Engulfed in the moonlight and the streetlamps around them. She looks like she stepped out of the silver screen.

Adora blinks. She chuckles softly. “Of course not,” she says. “But I know someone who is.”

“Who?” Catra looks around. “I don’t see anyone else here.”

Adora laughs. “Are you sure about that?”

This is it, Adora thinks. She’d be fine with no sunshine or blue skies or any kind of weather that isn’t rain if it made Catra’s eyes glint like that. She’d even watch the forecast every night if she needed to.

“Yes.”

And exactly with that, it starts to pour. The rain comes down in sheets, drenching their shirts. There are drops of water trailing Catra’s cheeks and Adora wants nothing more than to press her palm to it. The rain pounds the boardwalk, sloshing their boots. The buildings around the boardwalk turn on their lights but everything else stays silent. It’s just the two of them.

Catra shrieks as soon as the rain starts and Adora laughs. There’s no cover in their vicinity, and Catra walks away briskly, leaving Adora alone. Adora walks up to her and puts her hand over Catra’s wrist.

“I thought you weren’t scared of the rain!” Adora says, amusement in her eyes. She ignores the pounding in her heart at their closeness. Although sober, she blames it on the tequila.

“I didn’t know it was _torrential_!”

“It’s not torrential,” Adora says, rolling her eyes. “You’re so dramatic.” She pulls Catra with her to the railings. The rain falls into the river, the feel of humid air around them, and she could hear music in the distance. The sight was beautiful.

“Adora! Stop!” Catra squirms in her grip, but Adora’s hand is firm on her wrist. They both know that Catra can get away if she wanted to. She doesn’t.

“Not until you admit you’re scared of the rain,” Adora says as she’s emboldened with sudden courage and brings Catra closer to her, their clothes drenched as it rains down on them.

“What are you doing? Let go of me!” Catra hits Adora’s shoulder.

Adora sticks her tongue out. “I can’t. It’s the rule of law.”

“What? Are you a lawyer now?” Catra asks, playing along. Adora loosens her grip, but she doesn’t let go. Catra doesn’t move her hand away either.

“It’s the years of contract reading for the band. It’s ingrained in my brain,” Adora says, tapping the side of her head.

Catra rolls her eyes with an exasperated sigh. “Since when do you read?”

“Objection, your honor. Leading the witness,” Adora says, grinning.

“That is _lame_ ,” Catra responds, but there’s a hint of a smile threatening to show itself. “You are a massive dork.”

Adora gasps in mock offense. “I am not.”

“You have to convince me otherwise.” Catra shrugs.

There’s an idea that pops in Adora’s head. It’s dumb and unnecessary. It’s cold and it’s still raining, they’re wet and there’s the taste of water and oceans and sunsets in Catra’s eyes. “I know it’s been a long time, but I still can do the dirty dancing lift.”

Confusion flickers over Catra’s face for a second before realization sinks in. “Did you forget that it’s raining?” She points out, but Adora isn’t bothered.

“It’s movie-like. Didn’t you want to be an actor when we first met?”

It’s the first time she brought up the past in a long time. Instead of Catra narrowing her eyes, she lets out a laugh. “That was like, eight years ago, Adora.”

“You still wanted to be.”

“It doesn’t mean anything anymore.”

“It does to me.”

Done with the conversation, Catra asks, “Are you doing the lift or what?”

Adora pauses, jaw hanging open. She did _not_ expect that. “Are you serious? In the rain?”

“I thought you said it didn’t matter.”

“I literally never said that once.”

“You’re stalling. I bet you can’t do it.” Catra steps closer to Adora, and she should be cold but all she could feel is her warmth. The rain is uncomfortable at first, but — but it seems like it rained for them, the droplets falling from their skin, like salt in the oceans and history in the rivers.

Adora moves closer. The night is young and Adora is tipsy so she drops her pretenses. “I know I still can.”

They did.

**. . .**

Adora sleeps for the entire duration of the six-hour plane ride to LAX. She barely got any sleep last night. She went back to her apartment, fully drenched. She ended up falling asleep inside the bathtub, only to wake up two hours later for her private flight.

There’s a mob of fans waiting for them at the departure terminals. Adora wore sunglasses and a hoodie as a disguise, but she knows it’ll be a futile attempt. She can hear them screaming as she walks towards Bow and Glimmer in the baggage claim. When she walks up to them, Glimmer zeroes in on her.

“Have you checked your email?” Glimmer asks hands on her hips. Her eyes are narrowed. There’s something in her eyes, but Adora can’t tell what it is.

Adora gulps, eyes wide open. Glimmer never gets like this unless— she’s in trouble. She thinks she’s in trouble.

“…No?” It comes out more of a question. “I fell asleep on the plane. Is there something wrong?”

“Something wrong, Adora? Check your phone and tell me the first thing you see.”

At Glimmer’s words, she powers on her phone and they wait in silence. It’s too much. Adora can’t take it. “Just tell me what’s wrong.” She looks at them, pleading. “Please.”

“TMZ posted an article and our fans are going wild. Like spamming our Twitter and Instagram accounts and everything. I sent you the link to the article,” Bow says as her phone displays her lock screen. It floods with notifications immediately. There are unread emails and messages, fifteen missed calls from their manager and publicists.

“Was it something I said in an interview?” Adora asks, pressing on her home button. Her anxiety begins to flare, her hands beginning to tremble. She inhales deeply, but it does nothing to quell her nerves.

She feels a hand on her arm. It’s Glimmer, offering her a small smile. It soothes her. “We didn’t want to tell you because you might take it the wrong way.”

She opens Bow’s text and takes a deep breath before she presses on the link he sent her. TMZ’s website loads slowly. Every second is torture. It seems to go on forever until it doesn’t.

And she sees it.

It’s a collection of pictures taken from different places and angles. The first picture was taken a month ago — it was the two of them walking into the Italian restaurant the day after Adora saw Catra on the runway. Two pictures soon followed, both from the private rooftop party. It looks worse than it should. It was the two of them, next to each other. Adora is facing her, leaning into Catra, who is turned away from the camera. The pictures are dim and blurry. It's vague enough that there’s no clear interpretation of it.

Her heart drops as she reads the headline.

**ADORA GRAYSKULL’S GIRLFRIEND: WHO IS THE POP STAR DATING?**

“Oh my god,” Adora mutters, frozen in place. They courted danger and didn’t get away with it. Maybe it’s what they deserve.

“They don’t know that it’s Catra yet. You, however, are unmistakable.” Glimmer sighs, shaking her head.

She exits the article and opens her messages, scrolling and pressing on her texts with Catra.

_have you seen the article?_ Adora types, fingers trembling.

Catra doesn’t reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> even though it took five drafts for this chapter to be what it is, i loved writing it! but i love even more all the kudos and comments you gave me! thank you so much for the love, my heart is vv full.
> 
> side note,, before i published this fic, i challenged myself to run a kilometer for every kudo this story gets bc i wasn't expecting much for this fic,, but i ran like 14km so i can say at least i tried right? also also i finished the outline for this fic and it totalled to seven chapters, not five like i originally predicted.
> 
> thank you so much for reading!! i'd love to see what you think!!


	3. that's what friends are for

_then_

She is seventeen, carrying a wild heart with forest fires in her soul, and _my god_ — does Catra hate New York.

The underground subway is deafening. She always takes the wrong train and ends up far, far from home. The skyscrapers tower over her, sinister and threatening. The streets are unfamiliar; the soles of her shoes don’t know the pavement, the clouds are a compass she can’t read. She rarely uses her watch — New York is in a state of endless rush, stop and you will be left behind.

New York will never be her home.

Catra walks inside her high school’s theater. It was pitch black; the lights were turned off in the backstage area and in the dressing rooms. It doesn’t settle right in her bones.

She’s in the backstage area, approaching the stage from behind. She’s about to move the curtains when she hears the faint sounds of a piano playing.

It is quiet. The notes flow from the piano, like tidal waves reaching the shorelines, surrounding the auditorium with music. It is what moonlight would have sounded like; gently grazing the surface of the water, rippling with the silver petals falling into the lake.

The song advances. It’s dramatic. A haunting melody forms and is played over and over, becoming louder, ringing across the auditorium until it calms down, each measure becoming softer, softer, softer until the last notes can barely be heard. It’s simple and unadorned.

Catra moves the curtain back. There is one light open, shining on a girl with blonde hair, tied into a ponytail. She sits rigidly on the bench with sheet music laid on the top board, but she seems to know the entire piece by memory. Her eyes were closed and Catra could only hear the beating of her heart.

The song ends.

The girl’s eyes open and her gaze immediately falls upon Catra. It’s blue, Catra notes. The girl has blue eyes like oceans and lakes and waterfalls. _Come here,_ it seems to say. _Let me drown you before you learn how to swim._

Catra exhales; she didn’t realize she was holding it. She starts to clap.

She almost says, “Your music — it sounds like the songs they played when they built Rome in a day.”

She almost says, “How can you carry all the rivers and the seas of the world in your eyes?”

She almost says, “I want to get to know you. You look like the kind that will break my heart.”

What she actually says, “Wow. That was good.”

(It’s _almost_ funny how the universe works.)

The girl blushes. It’s endearing, the way she subtly smiles and running her fingers through her hair. “Thank you.”

Catra can’t help herself. This girl is captivating. She reminds her of gravity towards the sun; pulling her in, inescapable and magnetic. This is the reason she says, “Was that Mozart or something?”

The girl laughs. It sounds like the music she plays. “No. Nice guess, though.”

Shaking her head at herself, Catra walks over. Her eyes wander over to the sheet music. It’s a mess. There are pencil marks all over the paper, notes about accidentals and fingering positions with exclamation marks. On top of the paper was a blank line. “There’s no title?”

The girl gives her a grin. It’s dangerous. There are thunderstorms and burning buildings in her lips. “I wrote it myself, actually.”

Catra raises an eyebrow, impressed. “No kidding?”

The girl nods. “Yeah.”

“It sounds good.”

“Thank you.” The girl looks at the sheet music, then at her. “What’s your name?”

Catra leans on the side of the piano. Before answering, she wets her lips, noting the way the girl’s eyes drop before looking back at her. She smirks. “Catra.”

“Catra,” the girl says, testing the word in her mouth. “It’s a lovely name. I’m Adora,” she holds out a hand.

When Catra reaches out and touches her, it feels like the theater turns on its axis and it shouldn’t make sense but it _does_ — that’s the weird part. There are windowsills from the Empire State Building in her eyes, jagged lines and mapped roads in the lines of her palms, blinking traffic lights that play a melody in her head.

 _It’s there,_ Catra thinks. The beating heart of New York — all contained in this girl with blue eyes and hands that make music.

(It's all about rewriting her understanding of music; Adora, Adora, Adora. Her name would be the first definition in a dictionary, the right synonym in a thesaurus.

She's music in every sense of the word.)

“Can I sit down?” Catra asks. She’s breathless.

“Sure,” Adora answers. She moves to her side, letting Catra sit down beside her.

“You don’t have a title for that song?” Catra brushes her hands over the piano keys, feeling the smoothness of the ivory.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Adora says, “I’m not sure what to name it yet. I’m waiting for it to come find me.”

“How poetic. Do you play anything else?”

“I do.” Adora looks at her. “But I mostly write.”

“What do you write about?”

“Everything,” Adora says, “I write about things close to my heart. Things that interest me.”

“Will you write a song about me?” Catra asks jokingly.

Taken aback, Adora widens her eyes. Catra wonders if she took it a step too far. Adora’s mouth curls to a smile. “Maybe. As I said, I write about anything and everything.”

“Mysterious.”

Adora furrows her eyebrows, looking at Catra. It’s exposing. Catra doesn’t know what she’s seeing. Pursing her lips, Adora asks, “Are you here for the rehearsal?”

“No,” Catra says. She rolls her eyes. “I’m here to sit alone in the dark.”

Adora chuckles, bumping her shoulder with Catra’s. “Fair. I’m the new pianist.”

“Pianist?” Adora nods. “What happened to the other one— Cobalt, I think?”

“I honestly have no idea,” Adora says. “I’m here to fill his spot.”

A sudden boldness washes over Catra. It’s out of her control — intense and fervent and consuming. “Does that mean we’ll be seeing each other more often?”

Adora looks pleasantly surprised. She grins at Catra, a little bit messy and a little bit wild. “I guess so,” Adora says, taking her bottom lip to her mouth.

“That doesn’t mean we should see each other only during rehearsals though,” Catra replies, raising an eyebrow.

Adora watches her with a glint in her eye, smiling. “No, we don’t,” she whispers, low and vibrating. It sends a lightning bolt in Catra’s system.

“Yeah,” Catra agrees.

“Uh,” she starts. “Do you have any plans—” Adora doesn’t get to finish her sentence when the double doors of the auditorium slam open.

“No. I haven’t seen her, ma’am— I mean, Miss Weaver,” a boy says, stumbling and stuttering over his words. Next to him was their drama teacher and the director of their play.

Shadow Weaver.

**: : :**

_now_

_have you read the article?_ The text reads.

For a split second, Adora thinks there is a reply — there isn’t. The silence is there, lingering in the air. It hurts.

(She ignores the urge to press the call button.)

It should come soon, Adora knows. The ice-cold dread from the bottom of her stomach traveling to her chest to her throat, wrapping itself around it and suffocating her. Her fingers should tremble, and she should feel like she’s gasping for air, drowning to the deepest parts of the ocean. She’s two thousand miles away from home — and comfort is nowhere near her grasp.

Adora closes her eyes. It doesn’t come.

“Adora,” Glimmer calls her attention, rubbing her arm. “Are you okay?”

“I think I am,” Adora mutters. She’s overwhelmed. “It’s a lot.”

There’s a voice in background. It’s not meant to soothe, it’s hard and firm. “Adora,” she hears, “we have to go.”

Bow answers, but Adora is too distracted to listen. It’s urgent. Adora takes a deep breath. _When did her suitcase feel so heavy?_ She exhales. There’s the idea of tornadoes and ripped-up skies and broken windshields, they all have one thing in common — the feeling of restlessness and panic. She hears footsteps walk closer to them.

“I’m sorry, but we’re running on a schedule,” the voice says. Adora looks up. It’s the band’s bodyguard, Juliet. She’s pressing into her earpiece, muttering into it.

“Fuck,” Glimmer says under her breath. “Adora, I’m so sorry, but we have to go. Hold on to us, okay?” Glimmer tells her gently.

“If you’re overwhelmed, squeeze my arm and we’ll take a different direction or something,” Bow says.

“Are all of you ready?” Juliet asks, but she doesn’t wait for an answer. “We’re heading to the departure terminals. In the waiting area and outside the airport, there’s a mob of fans and paparazzi. Always keep your head down.”

“I hate the paparazzi,” Glimmer mutters.

“Oh,” Juliet says. She turns around. “No interaction with fans as well. It’s too risky.” She looks at Adora. “I’m sure you’ve heard the news.”

“Oh, I have,” Adora says.

“We got your back, Adora,” Bow tells her. Adora smiles back weakly.

Juliet nods. “That’s settled then. Let’s head out.”

They walk out to the main terminal. There are no time zones in airports but there’s life in shiny waxed floors and squeaking luggage wheels and duty-free shops all around the area. They’re spotted immediately, and the cameras start flashing. They’re shouting her name. They’re close and it’s unwarranted.

“Is it true that you’ve been sleeping around with models? Is that the reason you went to Milan Fashion Week?”

“Who was the girl you were spotted with in New York, Adora?”

“Over here, Adora!”

The questions are unapologetically intrusive. It’s accusing and pressuring. They almost reach the exit until one reporter grabs Adora by the arm, shoving his camera to her face. “Tell us the name of the girl you were spotted with. Are you sleeping with her?”

In another time, Adora would have shrugged the man off. But she can only feel the beat of her heart pounding against her ribs, wondering why it hasn’t shattered yet. A slight wave of relief washes over her when Juliet yanks him off of her.

They walk faster. Adora lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding when she sees their van. She comes in first, slouching against her seat and letting her head rest against the cool window.

She sees their fans outside the airport, holding cameras and signs, held back by the metal barriers. She wonders how long they have been waiting. She wonders how they knew they were there.

Bow and Glimmer slip in after her, then Juliet comes last, closing the door.

The van moves forward, and Adora could see four police motorcycles acting as a motorcade around their car. There’s a stream of sunlight coming in from the window, and she could see the highway, slowly becoming only a blur.

She takes her phone out of her pocket. She unlocks it, and it opens on her messages with Catra.

Still no reply.

 _catra,_ she types. _please talk to me._

She presses send.

**. . .**

_catra, please talk to me._ The text reads.

Catra sighs, rubbing her forehead. She’s staring at Adora’s message, unable to respond. There’s a bullet in her mouth that’s keeping her from speaking. _Is she waiting for me?_ Catra thinks. She doesn’t know the answer.

(In truth, Catra does know.

She is. She always is.)

“I don’t know what to say, Scorpia,” she says, “I mean— what would you even say?”

“I think I’d say ‘yes’? Or just reply in general,” Scorpia says, leaning on her kitchen counter.

“No.” Catra groans. “That’s _logical_. Nothing is logical when it comes to us.”

“You’re thinking too much. I think she just wants a reply, wildcat.” Scorpia’s voice is gentle. “Even a thumbs up will do, even if it _is_ kind of mean.”

“I guess,” Catra mutters. She crosses her arms over her chest, arms brushing against the cotton of the apron she’s wearing.

They fall into companionable silence, but it is quickly interrupted when there’s a knock on the door. It rings out throughout the apartment, sharp and loud.

“Oh! They’re here,” Scorpia says. “I’ll be inside the guest room. Call me when you need anything! Good luck!”

Catra nods in answer. Turning off her phone and placing it on the counter, Catra forces a smile on her face and opens the door.

She’s hit with the sight of her interviewer, Double Trouble. They’re next to the camera crew, who are holding some lighting equipment and a microphone.

“Come in,” Catra says.

“Hey, darling. You know the drill. I’ll be asking you seventy-three questions while you answer them as fast as you can,” Double Trouble says. There is mischief in their eyes.

“Yes, I do,” Catra answers, moving back and letting the crew inside. There is life blooming in the four corners of her apartment — houseplants that grew out of their pots and mismatched pillowcases on her couches and picture frames that are slightly crooked.

She leads them to her kitchen, where she was in the middle of creating a dessert. There are old recipes on the shelves, folded over countless times and stained with time and love. There are teapots on the counter. The light green kettle whistles on the stovetop. The kitchen has a large window, displaying the view of the streets of Central Avenue, busy and bustling and teeming with life.

“Walk us through what you’re doing right now,” Double Trouble says as they walk around her kitchen island. The countertop is a mess. There’s crushed wafers in a bowl, a pint of chocolate chip ice cream, and slices of vanilla pound cake on a tray. There’s a hint of sweetness in the air. It smells like rose-colored sunsets and honeysuckle trees in the summer.

“I’m making baked Alaska,” Catra answers, taking a pastry bag filled with meringue and waves it in front of the camera. “I only do this on special occasions.”

“Oh? May I ask what the occasion is?” Double Trouble asks. Grabbing a slice of the discarded pound cake on the table, they take a bite from it. They make a satisfied hum, muttering, “That’s good.”

“Guess,” Catra says, squeezing the back of the pastry bag and making small rosette-shapes of meringue to the dessert.

“You’re pregnant,” they deadpan.

“What? No!” Catra lets out a small laugh, throwing her head back. “I’ll be modeling for _Guess_. That’s what I mean.”

“Congratulations! This is a cheat day, then?”

“Thank you and yes,” Catra answers, putting the finishing touches of meringue on top of the dessert. Placing it away, she takes a metal torch from the side.

Double Trouble eyes it, hesitant. “That seems dangerous.” They grin. “I love it. When did you get into baking?”

Catra hums. “I got into it before modeling,” Catra says as she waves the torch’s flame back and forth lightly over the meringue, a golden brown coloring the white surface. “My ex loved pastries. I learned it to make a batch of cookies for their birthday.”

“How sweet,” Double Troubles says. They lean over the kitchen counter. “Was it any good?”

Catra chuckles. “Looking back,” she turns off the torch, “It was horrible. But they loved it, and I got better.”

“You clearly have,” they respond, inspecting Catra’s handiwork. “So,” Double Trouble shrugs, casual. “Is the said ex still in your life?”

**. . .**

It’s noon.

Adora is inside her favorite bakery in Los Angeles. Streams of sunlight pour into the bakery, enveloping the place with warm light. The scent of chocolate-chip cookies and pink macarons and brewed coffee lingers in the air, the pastries encased in glass boxes with little signs. The faint sound of piano flows from the small, tinny speakers, accompanied by the hum of the background conversation in the bakery’s kitchen.

(Bow and Glimmer had pleaded with the driver to take a detour so she could cheer up.)

“Is this for a group?” The cashier asks, looking at the order on the screen in front of her.

“Yeah. Totally,” Adora draws out, giving the cashier a thumbs up. _It isn’t._

“Okay, so let me repeat the order: a large classic icebox cake, three slices of chocolate cake, half-dozen red velvet cupcakes, one mini cheesecake with seasonal fruit toppings, and one banana muffin,” the cashier says, looking incredulous.

“That’s right.” Adora smiles at the cashier. “How much is it?”

“Your total is ninety-two dollars and fifteen cents,” the cashier reads out, tapping on her screen.

Adora takes out two hundreds from her wallet, handing it to the woman. “Here. Keep the change.”

“Oh.” The cashier is left speechless. The money lays unmoving in her palm. “Thank you.”

“It’s cool,” Adora says, “I just have a _tiny_ request. I’m running on a pretty tight schedule so can this be faster? If it’s no problem, that is.”

The cashier stares at her. There’s a glint in her eye, and she’s starstruck. She regains her composure, saying, “Of course, of course. It’ll be here right away.” She smiles at Adora and goes inside the bakery’s kitchen.

In a few minutes ( _super impressive,_ Adora thinks) she comes back to the counter holding a large paper bag. Adora takes it from her hands, feeling the heavy weight of the large sum of pastries.

“Thank you!” Adora nods at the cashier and turns to leave, but—

“If it’s not too much, can I have a picture with you?”

Internally taking a deep breath, Adora nods. _Juliet is going to be_ so _mad._ “Of course. Let’s be quick.” They take the picture, the cashier’s hand lingering too long on her waist. Two employees leave the kitchen, both asking for more pictures.

Adora agrees to all of them.

(Juliet was so _pissed_.)

**. . .**

Catra narrows her eyes, suspecting. “We’re making… amends.” She turns away, using a napkin to clean the mess in the counter. “That’s all I have to say in the matter, though.”

“Okay,” Double Trouble says, an amused lilt to their voice. “You just ran down a runway for _Versace_. How does that feel?”

Taken aback at Double Trouble’s compliance, Catra raises an eyebrow. She recovers easily. “It feels like a normal workday.” Catra shrugs. “There were some interesting parts.”

“Really?” Double Trouble leans in, unabashedly curious. “Did you happen to meet _anyone_ there?”

“Yeah,” Catra says, “I met a lot of people. It was a good time.”

“Any name drops happening here?”

Catra finishes up cleaning the countertop. She takes her apron off and puts her hands on her hips. “Where exactly are you getting at?”

Double Trouble has the gall to look offended, putting a hand to their chest and throwing their head back. “Are you _accusing_ me of something?”

Catra looks perplexed. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

Double Trouble looks at Catra, holding her gaze as they take another piece of the vanilla pound cake, eating it as Catra watches. “Everything is rhetorical, darling. Just like the rest of this cake.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.” Catra swats their hand away. “Stop eating my pound cake.”

Double Trouble stands up straight. They put their finger to their mouth, releasing it with a pop. “What do you like in New York?”

Catra pauses. She opens her mouth then closes it, thinking. “I love the music here. It’s everywhere in the streets, in the bars. It reminds me of—” Catra stops herself, furrowing her eyebrows.

Double Trouble probes. “Of?”

“Of the past. You know, childhood,” Catra says.

Unconvinced, Double Trouble asks, “Well, what else do you do in your spare time?”

Catra takes the baked Alaska, saying, “I used to be a theater kid, so I sing sometimes. Old habits die hard,” she shrugs, “I also read. Do you want a slice?”

“We’ll be doing a taste test later.” Double Trouble winks at the camera. “Anyway, so you read. Do you have any favorite books?”

Catra turns around and puts the dessert in the fridge. “Yeah. It’s in my bedroom. Let me lead you there.”

They walk up the stairs, down the hallway to her door. Before she opens it, she turns around while holding the doorknob. “It’s a bit of a mess, so… you’ve been warned.”

She opens the door. The walls of her bedroom are covered with floor-to-ceiling windows, sun pouring in and soaking the room with warmth. It overlooks the Hudson River and Central Park. There is a fireplace on the other side of the room. The doors and floorings were made of Bubinga wood, elegant and sleek.

The only mess is the covers that weren’t made.

“My bookshelf is over there.” Catra points at it, next to the fireplace. “It’s a bunch of classics and non-fiction books, and I recommend all of them.”

Double Trouble looks carefully at the collection. “Well, you heard it from her, people. Go read a book or something.” They run their hands through the spines of the hardcover books. “I haven’t touched a book since college.”

Catra chuckles, sitting on her bed. “Aren’t you a journalist? Doesn’t that mean you should be advocating literacy?”

They shrug. “Interviewing is all about improvisation and stage presence, kitten.”

“Kitten?” Catra rolls her eyes. “How original.”

“I haven’t heard of this one. What is it?” They ask, pulling out a hardcover book. There’s no design in the cover. It’s black and it rattles when shaken. Catra almost doesn’t recognize it, and when she does, she only narrows her eyes.

“It’s nothing. Take a look at the others there. It’s more interesting,” Catra says. She’s not paying attention anymore, slowly drifting away.

“Mhm. What’s this?”

Catra turns around. She hadn’t realized that Double Trouble had moved to the other side of the room when she wasn’t paying attention.

Her heart drops.

Double Trouble is holding a picture frame of her high-school theater cast. They’re on a stage, the spotlights shining down on them, deep black walls on the background. She’s still wearing her costume. All of them are. It shouldn’t mean anything, but it does.

(In the background, Adora is holding Catra close to her.

Her memories and the art of theater — all contained in one single person.)

“Don’t touch that,” Catra asserts. Goosebumps are rising in her skin, a fresh wave of anxiety washing over like a tide. She turns to the camera. It’s still recording, still exposing. “Cut that out.”

“Why?” Double Trouble looks at her, still holding the frame.

Catra stands up. She narrows her eyes at Double Trouble. “That’s private.”

“But darling, this is _showbiz_!” Double Trouble exclaims.

“You don’t have the right to do that,” Catra says. There’s a spark of anger in her chest.

Double Trouble smirks. “Are you sure about that?”

**. . .**

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

It is a huge room. There are no windows in the room — instead small round ceiling lights are illuminating the room, and blue light coming from the countless computers across the room. There’s a black leather couch with _THE SEA HAWK SHOW_ projected in white light behind it on a brick wall, exclamation signs and fists littered around it, with _AND MERMISTA_ at the bottom.

Bow, Glimmer, and Adora are currently huddled together on said couch, Adora being on the far left.

“Let’s talk about the release of The Alliance’s new single, titled _Heart_ , tomorrow! How does that feel?” Sea Hawk says, waving around a cue card while speaking.

“I’ve been looking at Twitter and stuff,” Adora says, “I love seeing the fans be so supportive and excited.”

“It feels _so_ amazing!” Bow adds on. “We’d be nowhere without them, honestly.”

“Congrats,” Mermista says.

“Thanks!” Bow says, ignoring the dryness of her delivery.

“Are you nervous about tomorrow?” Sea Hawk asks. “There will be twenty million people and more around the world who will be watching you!”

“I mean,” Glimmer chuckles, “only twenty million?”

Adora laughs, throwing her head back. “That sounds so ungrateful. It’s pretty nerve-wracking, though.”

“Does it _shiver_ your _timbers_?” Sea Hawk winks, nudging Mermista on the side with his elbow. She doesn’t react.

“What,” Mermista says flatly.

“Can you tell us more about a song or,” Sea Hawk says, dropping into a whisper, “is it a super-top secret?”

“Well…” Glimmer trails, raising her shoulders.

Bow smiles apologetically. “It’s a bit of a secret for now.”

“Surprise,” Mermista waves her hands around sarcastically. “They don’t want to reveal a song that isn’t released yet. How unexpected.” She looks at Sea Hawk with an expression that says _are you serious?_

“No, I think I’ll say something,” Adora says, “It’s a song I had written when I was like a teenager.”

“Wasn’t everyone?” Mermista adds, albeit unhelpfully.

“True,” Adora agrees, “I mean, I don’t have the original demo anymore, but the lyrics were in some old journal and I can still remember the melody. When we recorded it, I think it was at _The Music Building_ or something?”

“The one in New York?” Mermista asks.

“Yeah, yeah,” Adora says, “I brought the journal along, and Bow and Glimmer did their magic on it. They’re music wizards.”

“That’s so sweet,” Glimmer says as Bow reaches over, patting Adora on the leg.

“What happened to the original demo?”

“Uh,” Adora scratches the back of her head, a faint blush rising on her cheeks. “I… I don’t know anymore?” It comes out more of a question than an answer. “I probably misplaced it or something.”

“Uh-huh,” Mermista sounds unconvinced. “Do you remember why you wrote it?”

“She’s actually asking questions,” Sea Hawk says, amazement in his eyes.

“Shut up, Sea Hawk.” She rolls her eyes.

With everyone looking at her as they wait for her answer, Adora internally grimaces, unwilling. “It was a long time ago. It’s about something that is very, very close to my heart, hence the name.” She smiles meekly.

“That’s so cute!” Bow exclaims, holding his fist to his cheeks.

“The lyrics are even better,” Glimmer says, “Adora is one hell of a writer.”

“Speaking of write-ups,” Sea Hawk says, “I didn’t want to ask this but it’s all everyone is talking about—” Adora groans, already hearing the question.

“Who was the girl you were spotted with?” Mermista interrupts Sea Hawk.

“Can I plead the fifth?” Adora asks, smiling into the microphone.

Sea Hawk relents and he changes the topic. “No pressure. How about the tour? You just finished the North American leg of your _sold-out_ stadium tour—”

“Yay,” Mermista adds.

“I’m still at awe about that,” Bow says.

“—and your international tour starts soon. Isn’t that exciting?”

Glimmer says something, but Adora couldn’t hear it over the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears. She resists the urge to check her phone.

They don’t talk about the rumors for the rest of the interview.

**. . .**

“Are you sure about that?”

There’s something that ticks inside Catra. Maybe it was because Double Trouble was still holding her picture frame, taunting and smug. Maybe it was because the camera that was still filming her, the microphone that was still recording every word she’ll say. Maybe it was because of the article going around the internet, rumors and rumors and more rumors. Maybe it was all of them combined.

Catra tries to regain her composure. “Are you done?”

Double Trouble puts down the picture frame. “Alright, kitten. I was joking. I didn’t know I hit a sore spot.”

Catra narrows her eyes. “It’s not appropriate. Privacy isn’t fucking ridiculous.”

Double Trouble laughs. Actually laughs. “This is _so_ going on our channel.”

“Please leave.” Catra points to the door. “This isn’t funny at all.”

“Oh, darling,” Double Trouble says, leaning against her drawer. “But what if _Adora Grayskull_ found it funny?”

The simmering flame turns into blown, iron-hot anger. “Get the fuck out!” Catra’s hands are clenched at her sides, trembling. She’s breathing heavily.

Scorpia barges inside the room in that exact moment. She looks around the room, her gaze immediately falling on Catra. Scorpia turns and sets her eyes on Double Trouble, who raises their hands.

“We’re going, we’re going. Gentlemen?” They nod at the camera crew. “This was _Vogue’s_ 73 Questions with Catra, the up-and-coming darling of the fashion industry!” They pause, letting their words sink in.

“It wasn’t even twenty questions,” Catra says, swallowing.

“So snarky. I see how you charm these mega-superstars. The _allurement_ of mystery.” They pause at the door, examining Catra. “It’s incredible — your face,” they whisper, “it’s almost better than applause.”

“Get out.”

Without missing a beat, Double Trouble winks at the camera. “What an ending! Don’t forget to leave a like and subscribe.”

They walk out of the room, the camera crew following. They hear the apartment’s door open and when it closes, Scorpia walks over to Catra.

“Hey, wildcat. Are you okay?” Scorpia asks, rubbing Catra’s back. She’s looking down on the ground, feeling the panic and turmoil simmering in her chest.

“I… I want to be alone,” Catra murmurs. The words feel familiar. Despite her words, she reaches out her hand to Scorpia, gripping it — _stay, stay, stay,_ it says over roaring thunder and self-doubt — and Scorpia _understands_.

“Catra,” Scorpia says, gently, “Do you want me to stay?”

It’s hard to speak. She learned that the hard way. She forces it, like knives on her throat, twisting, blood dripping on her clothes, dripping on the floor. “Yes.”

And Scorpia does.

(But it hits her.

The sun. A memory. It fills her chest with fire.

It’s clear in broad daylight; in the shell of the night; in pink skies; in the deep ocean; in the middle of New York. The memory of an empty theater, closing her eyes to the music, moving the curtain and seeing the next three years of her life, wanting someone to stay.

She wants to see the woman with eyes like the underbelly of the waves, consuming and enveloping her all at once. She wants to hear the woman who sings the songs she hears on the radio on the way to a photoshoot. She doesn’t know why — not in the way the moon controls the oceans. How cherry blossoms bloom in spring.

How Adora would always come back to her.)

She lets Scorpia hold her close.

**: : :**

_then_

“Again.”

It’s the third time Shadow Weaver interrupted Catra’s solo. Her voice rings out loudly in the auditorium. It’s gravelly and scraping in Catra’s ears. She can almost hear every cast member’s eye roll.

Sighing, Catra walks behind the curtain. The piano begins again, the lights shine on her, and Catra walks back into the stage. She’s in character. Her arms are hugging her waist and the coat she’s wearing is hot and heavy. She looks around the stage, eyes frantic and searching, opening her mouth to start—

“Again.”

This time, Catra can’t help but let out a groan. She glares at Shadow Weaver. “What did I even do wrong? I haven’t even started yet.”

“Don’t try to be clever with me, Catra,” Shadow Weaver says. Catra grits her teeth, narrowing her eyes. “Do you want to return to Miami a disappointment?”

Catra looks away, eyes falling on Adora at the piano. Her gaze feels weighted on Catra. She turns to Shadow Weaver who says, “Repeat the scene. This time, do it right.”

Without a word, Catra moves backstage again. She can’t look at any of the other cast members in the eyes.

They repeat the scene again six more times.

**. . .**

Catra’s alone.

She sitting on the front-row seat of the theater. Everyone left hours ago, it was late in the evening. She’s staring blankly to the stage, taking short, quivering breaths. The footlights are turned off and the curtains are drawn. There is anger and frustration slowly simmering in her chest.

The door opens. It echoes loudly across the entire area. She almost jumps in her seat, but she turns her head around and glares at the intruder.

Adora.

She looks surprised as well, eyes widening. Adora blinks and regains her composure. “Catra. Are… are you okay?”

Catra turns away. She hugs her knees closer to her chest. “Get out.”

“I… left my keys in the dressing room,” Adora says.

There are no words exchanged when Adora walks backstage. It takes a few minutes — there’s a loud thud of something falling to the floor and another before there’s silence again — Adora resurfaces from the backstage after. She walks towards Catra, slow and hesitant.

“Stop,” Catra mutters. Her heart is racing like she’s driving over the speed limit, sitting in a plane shaking with turbulence.

“Catra…” Adora sounds so concerned. It tugs something in Catra’s chest. There’s waves roaring and crashing down on them, drowning deeper and deeper into the ocean, the taste of salt in their mouths, the grains of sand and time caressing their skin, history and kismet and fate intertwined.

(It was terrifying.)

(It was the most amazing thing Catra had ever witnessed in the seventeen years of her life.)

“I want to be alone,” Catra breathes out.

Adora looks at her. She’s taking her apart, layer by layer, carving her into the wood and sculpting her into ice. “Aren’t you— aren’t you tired of it?”

There’s a ripple in the water, a drop in the ocean. Adora waits for her answer. “Tired of what?”

“Letting yourself be alone,” Adora whispers. There are dreams in desperation and honesty in truth. Catra is dreaming and a liar. “Aren’t… aren’t you tired of it?”

Catra doesn’t respond.

Adora sighs. She turns to leave.

“Adora.” Catra closes her eyes. “Please,” she mutters. Adora looks at her — waiting, waiting, always waiting — as Catra musters the courage to speak. “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t,” Adora mutters. She sits down on the seat next to her, the chair creaking, rusty with the oil old and forgotten. They don’t mind.

She stays.

**: : :**

_now_

“Wildcat, there’s also something I need to tell you.” Scorpia breaks the silence. It’s been half an hour since the interview happened. Scorpia gently lets go of the hold she had on her.

“What is it?” Catra mumbles. Her throat is scratchy.

“Before that, are you feeling okay now? Blink once if you are, sneeze if you aren’t.”

“How can one even make themselves sneeze intentionally?”

“So you’re okay! That’s good. No, not good. Great!” Scorpia exclaims, “While you guys were doing your thing in the bedroom, I checked the mail and you have something addressed to you. Did you order something?”

“I don’t remember,” Catra says, “I don’t think so.”

“Well, I’ll get it. Wait a second.”

A few minutes pass before Scorpia returns. She’s holding a cup of tea and a fancy-looking envelope in her other hand. “You forgot about the tea,” she says, putting down the cup and handing the envelope to Catra.

Catra opens the envelope and takes the paper from it. It’s an invitation. She skims over it.

“What is it?” Scorpia asks, curious.

“It’s the award show tomorrow. I’m presenting an award there,” Catra reads out loud.

“What award is it?”

“It’ll be about the artist of the decade,” she says. She reads the winner’s name in bold print.

**THE ALLIANCE – ARTIST OF THE DECADE**

“Isn’t that Adora’s band? They’ll be performing tomorrow too! That must be insane.”

“Performing?” Catra asks. “What are they even going to perform?”

“It’s a medley,” Scorpia says, “I think they’ll also be debuting their newest single. It’s called _Heart_.”

The name feels familiar. She ignores Scorpia’s look of curiosity as she walks over to the bookshelf. Hand skimming over the spines of the books, she takes the book Double Trouble had taken out earlier. It rattles as she pulls it out.

 _FOR CATRA,_ the title says. When she opens it, there’s a cassette tape on it. It’s not a book. It’s a box in the shape of a book. She hasn’t touched it in a long time.

And there it was.

The title was written on the cassette tape with a permanent marker. However, the ink is slowly fading to time, disappearing from her eyes.

It was titled _Heart_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing this was a great excuse to watch those 73 question interviews from vogue and forced me to stop sitting around and practice my scales (plus here is an update to my running-kudo thing: 16km baybee)
> 
> anywayy thank you so much for the kind comments and kudos! i hope that you guys know that it means a lot and i really appreciate everything!
> 
> i'd love to hear what you guys think on this chapter! thank you again for reading!


	4. see you again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! there's a slight correction in chapter 3: adora, bow, and glimmer are in LA right now for the award show and catra was still in New York for her interview with DT.
> 
> enjoy reading!

**Mystacor Music Awards** **✓** @MMAs · 1d

With thirty-two #MMAs in their belt, recently making history with the highest grossing concert tour of all time… @theAlliance will be honored with the ARTIST OF THE DECADE award and will perform LIVE tomorrow!

**201.5K** Retweets **674K** Likes

**. . .**

“Have you seen the news?”

It’s pointed and direct — the way Glimmer interrupts Adora’s peaceful meditation. Or an attempt to fall asleep, whatever. Adora almost ignores it by the way the room is cloaked in dim lighting; small bouts of sunlight slipping through the blinds. There’s the scent of eucalyptus oil in the air and classical music playing in the background. It should be considered a crime to open her eyes.

“At this point,” Adora says, “I think we’re always in some kind of news.”

“It’s about the Catra thing.”

There’s a burst of heat that erupts in her chest, burning holes in her skin. It spreads through like wildfire; spreading through hurricanes and hailstorms, combined with a fleeting sense of frustration. “Did she speak up about it?”

“I’m not actually sure,” Glimmer says. Her voice is muffled from laying down. “There’s a commotion on Twitter right now. It was in some kind of interview.”

“What did she say?”

“I don’t remember.”

The room, all of a sudden, feels too much. There’s an apology in Adora’s lips as she sits up — _sorry, sorry,_ she says to her masseur. Turning around, she grabs her phone from the table next to her. It seems like a bad omen.

“Where was it posted?” Adora asks.

“Check Twitter,” Glimmer says and Adora does. She waits for her timeline to load.

(It’s a mess.)

**. . .**

**adora’s cheeks** @adorasangels · 5m  
($*&(@#*$& HAVE YOU GUYS SEEN THE NEW VOGUE INTERVIEW IN YT IM HYPERVENTILATING JSKJHADKS

**glimmer step on me** @glimsguitar · 4m  
 _Replying to_ @adorasangels  
BREATHE GIRL BUT WHICH ONE???

**joanne** @njjoanne · 4m  
 _Replying to_ @glimsguitar _and_ @adorasangels  
THE ONE POSTED A FEW MINUTES AGO DUMBASS WHAT ELSE WOULD SHE TALK ABOUT

**glimmer step on me** @glimsguitar · 3m  
 _Replying to_ @njjoanne _and_ @adorasangels  
okay damn i was just asking is it that serious…….

**scott loves bow** @mybowmy · 3m  
 _Replying to_ @adorasangels  
OSDAJHDKAS IS THIS THE GIRL ADORA WAS WITH???? IM KIND OF SHAKING…. THEY MADE SOME POINTS I THINK

**glimmer step on me** @glimsguitar · 2m  
 _Replying to_ @mybowmy _and_ @adorasangels  
they look kind of hot together ngl,, the absolute serve

**adora’s cheeks** @adorasangels · 2m  
 _Replying to_ @glimsguitar _and_ @mybowmy  
THIS GIRL WAS AT MILAN FASHION WEEK RIGHT??? MAYBE ADORA CAME THERE FOR HER

**scott loves bow** @mybowmy · 2m  
 _Replying to_ @adorasangels _and_ @glimsguitar  
OMFGGG I CANT TAKE IT NOBODY MOVE……. WHAT’S THE SHIP NAME

**joanne** @njjoanne · 1m  
 _Replying to_ @mybowmy @adorasangels _and_ @glimsguitar  
#adocat

**scott loves bow** @mybowmy · 40s  
 _Replying to_ @njjoanne @adorasangels _and_ @glimsguitar  
ADOCAT PLEASEEEE#$(@&$*&&(#*$ IM GOING TO GO BONKERS…..

**glimmer step on me** @glimsguitar · 20s  
 _Replying to_ @njjoanne @adorasangels _and_ @mybowmy  
girl no……

**adora’s cheeks** @adorasangels · now  
 _Replying to_ @njjoanne @mybowmy _and_ @glimsguitar  
what about #catradora……..

**. . .**

Forehead knotting, Adora closes the Twitter app. From the first tweet, she opens YouTube and presses on trending. There it was. 73 Questions with Catra on _Vogue’s_ channel with 3M views. It had only been up for hours.

“You’re killing me, Adora. What happened?” Glimmer asks as Adora slowly processes the information.

“I haven’t clicked on the interview yet,” Adora mutters. She hovers her hand on the thumbnail.

“Do it.” With Glimmer’s insistence, Adora presses on the video.

As it loads, her masseur clears her throat, causing Adora to turn to her. “I’m okay now. Thank you so much. Please put it on our bill.” It was a polite and clear dismissal. The masseur nods and leaves them alone.

It starts with a knock on a door as the title card appears. The door opens and it’s Adora’s first glimpse of Catra ever since the article came out. She’s wearing a light pink _Givenchy_ button-up shirt with the top two buttons undone, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, paired with black women’s trousers. She looks gorgeous — but her shoulders are tired and there’s no crease in her eyes when she smiles. Adora’s heart clenches.

Watching the video intently, Adora watches as Catra moves back and the video shows Catra’s apartment — it’s exactly the place she imagines Catra would live in.

**: : :**

(“You’re lying,” Adora says, laughter in her voice. “You did not.”

“I did! I did,” Catra nods, “I did tell him that he was probably smaller than the sausage on his plate and left the restaurant. If I had recorded it, I would tell you.”

“Oh my god.” Adora wipes a tear from her eye. “It serves him right for hitting on you.”

It’s a Saturday morning, the day after Adora stayed with Catra in the empty theater.

They’re somewhere in the small nooks of New York, a café hidden from view. There’s a small blue-striped umbrella with white frills next to their table, but it was a cloudy and humid day. Their breakfast is on the table — two pieces of whole-grain avocado toast and tomatoes with sunny-side-up eggs for Catra and banana waffles with chocolate chips and a drizzle of maple syrup for Adora. They’ve been talking for a while about nothing and everything.

“Anyway,” Adora says, “I was reading an article earlier, but what would your future home look like?”

“God.” Catra leans her head back, exposing her neck. “I hope the scent of coffee, pastries, and chocolate chip cookies never disappear.”

“I _love_ those,” Adora says, then chuckles. “I bet you’re only saying that because you’re hungry.”

“Shut up.” Catra rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “I think I would love to have houseplants everywhere.”

“Even in the bathroom?”

Catra takes a sip from her cappuccino, her smile hidden behind the mug. Adora could only see the traces of it in her eyes, in her cheeks. “That may be an exception.”)

**: : :**

Blinking the memory away, she forwards the video.

_“My ex loved pastries. I learned it to make a batch of cookies for her birthday.”_ Catra’s voice comes out of the speakers as Adora sighs. Their past lingers everywhere, through the pixelated screens and in pop songs and memories drenched in nostalgia.

“What a coincidence! Don’t you love pastries too?” Glimmer asks, reminding Adora that she wasn’t alone.

“Uh,” Adora stumbles, “I do.”

_“It was horrible. But they loved it, and I got better.”_

**: : :**

(“What is this?” Adora asks.

They’re in Catra’s closet-sized apartment in New York. There’s the background noise of an old episode of _The Simpsons_ playing in the background. A thunderstorm rumbles outside, and the faint sounds of the neighboring apartments can be heard through the thin walls. Today is Adora’s birthday and she’s alone with a girl she’s been trying to write a song about — she wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Chocolate chip cookies,” Catra says. She puts her hands on her waist, a red apron that says _kiss the cook_ tied around it. “Isn’t that your favorite?”

Adora blinks. “You remember that?” There’s a grin that’s trying to force its way to her face. “Does that mean you _like_ me?”

“What?” Catra narrows her eyes. It’s an attempt to look intimidating, but she doesn’t and they both know it. “I just… I thought you’d like it.”

“I do,” Adora says, taking one of the decent-looking cookies from the batch. “Thank you.”

When she bites into the cookie, she tries to hide her grimace. It tastes like nothing, no better than cardboard. Looking up, she sees Catra acting nonchalant, but Adora knows she must be nervous. Shoving what was left of the cookie into her mouth, she says, “I love it.”

Seeing Catra smile at her answer, Adora knows that it was so worth it.

She finishes it all.)

**: : :**

With a deep breath, she presses on the tail end of the video. Catra is sitting at the edge of her bed, looking out the windows, while Double Trouble is looking around Catra’s bookshelf.

_“I haven’t heard of this one. What is it?”_

Adora watches closely as Double Trouble pulls out a black book, and a familiar wave of recognition washes over her. It’s the original demo of Heart — Adora can’t believe Catra kept it. Heartbeat picking up, she watches Catra’s reaction, drinking in every emotion that flits across her face when realization sinks in.

_“It’s nothing.”_

Oh. Ouch, Adora thinks. She watches Double Trouble walk near Catra’s bedside drawer, picking up a picture frame and—

_“Mhm. What’s this?”_

It’s their old high school theater cast.

They tell you about stories, the monster that hides under your bed and in your closet, about high tides and whirlpools and sirens singing on the rocks, girls with matches and gasoline — play with fire and you’ll end up burnt. Memories are flooding over — playing the piano to an empty theater, a girl listening behind the curtains, after-school rehearsals, staying past curfew, building a life around a song that doesn’t exist yet — she’s holding Catra close, close, close in the picture. Closer than they’ve been in years.

Their voices escalate.

_“But what if_ Adora Grayskull _found it funny?”_

_“Get the fuck out!”_

Adora can’t take it. She turns off her phone.

Their history is laden with complications. It’s all about Italian restaurants on a weekend, walking on cobblestone paths, sitting on the edges of infinity pools, dirty dancing on the pier, notes on fashion. Past and present — all laid out for people to see.

“Wow,” Glimmer says, having heard the video. “That was intense.”

Adora doesn’t answer.

“Adora?” Glimmer’s voice rings out in her ears. “Are you okay?”

“I… I think I am.”

Adora’s phone lights up; it’s their manager, Angella. “Your mom said we have to get ready for the show now.”

“Whatever you’re worrying about, Adora, we’ll figure it out later.” Glimmer sits up, smiling at Adora. “We always do.”

**. . .**

**Adora Grayskull** **✓** @therealadoragrayskull · 2h  
hey @glimmer do you know where @bowalliance is? he’s missing and idk where he is

**glimmer** **✓** @glimmer · 2h  
 _Replying to_ @therealadoragrayskull  
sigh we need a new drummer for the #MMAs,, the requirements are tapping in rhythm and holding sticks

**Bow** **✓** @bowalliance · 2h  
 _Replying to_ @therealadoragrayskull _and_ @glimmer  
Stoppp I’m at the caravan already

**#MMAs TONIGHT!!** @cynosurealliance · 2h  
 _Replying to_ @therealadoragrayskull @glimmer _and_ @bowalliance  
do y’alls imessage not work

**𝖇𝖊𝖆** @bowtiesthatbind · 2h  
 _Replying to_ @therealadoragrayskull @glimmer _and_ @bowalliance  
SDKASNDKJ the way y’all are probably tweeting this while sitting next to each other rn

**#1 HEART STAN** @rollwithitadora · 2h  
 _Replying to_ @therealadoragrayskull @glimmer _and_ @bowalliance  
OMGGG PLEASE WRECK ME ADORA

**carrie** @GLlMMER · 2h  
 _Replying to_ @rollwithitadora @therealadoragrayskull _and 2 others_  
chill she has a gf #catradora

**. . .**

“The fire thing that will light up next to my drums during _White Out_ is so terrifying,” Bow says. They’re lounging in the caravan the MMA’s gave them as a waiting room. There’s sunlight peeking through, hindered by the closed blinds. There are orange lamps attached to the walls and beige carpeted floors.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Adora says, closing her eyes as the massage rollers caress her back. “It looks super cool.”

“Yeah, but what if I end up on fire?” Bow whispers dramatically, dropping the hotdog he was eating.

“That looked like a good hotdog,” Adora says, narrowing her eyes. She closes it again as one of the knots in her back loosen. “This is an awesome massage chair.”

“Haven’t you had enough massages today?” Glimmer asks as Adora mumbles an _hmmph_ in response. Glimmer rolls her eyes. “Do you want to practice again?”

“No,” Adora murmurs, “Guitar is so hard.”

“You must be nervous, huh?” Bow asks. “This is your first time performing like this right?”

“It’s pretty terrifying,” Adora agrees. “At least, I think it is. That’s why it’s so scary.”

“Didn’t you say it was _fine_?” Glimmer mimics, “Everything has to be perfect.”

“Yeah, but…”

“No excuses. Come on, Adora,” Glimmer says.

Adora relents.

**: : :**

(It was an hour after the sunset. The walkways of Central Park are dark, illuminated solely by the streetlights. From a distance, it looks magical and whimsical, as if it stepped out of a dream. The trees glow in the dark as their reflections shine into the river lines. Adora and Catra found a secluded spot and they’re lying on a checkered blanket, Adora’s head on Catra’s lap.

“Have you ever played the guitar?” Catra asks, lightly stroking Adora’s hair.

“No,” Adora answers, “I haven’t. My hands aren’t tough enough for that. Why?”

“I was thinking,” Catra says, “I just thought that I never heard you play anything else.”

“They said your fingers would bleed when you start playing.”

“I’m sure they don’t.” Catra rolls her eyes. “That’s so dramatic. But don’t you ever want to learn it?”

Adora shrugs. “Not really.”

“If you ever write me a song, Adora Grayskull,” she pokes Adora in the chest, “it better be on the guitar.”

Heart thundering, she hopes Catra doesn’t notice. There’s a hint of a smile playing in Adora’s lips when she says, “I guess we’ll just have to see.”)

**: : :**

**Mystacor Music Awards** **✓** @MMAs · 1h

WOW @theAlliance just finished their last rehearsal and I didn’t know if it was possible but THEY SOUND BETTER THAN EVER. Their new song though… #TheAllianceXMMAs

**39.2K** Retweets **121K** Likes

**. . .**

“It looks so terrible,” Adora whines, “I never look at the camera at the end.”

Finishing their last rehearsal, they’re back in the dressing rooms, numerous hairdressers roaming around and fixing their hair and retouching their makeup. Adora’s watching the temporary rehearsal footage on her phone, wrinkling her nose in displeasure.

“Then look at the camera,” Glimmer says, scrolling her Instagram.

“But how can I see the fretboard?”

“You were doing well before the rehearsal. Just feel it!” Bow exclaims, having to talk much louder than the hairdryer.

“I can’t just feel it!” Adora exclaims. “This is something new, okay? I’m a bit nervous.”

“Oh Adora,” Glimmer says sympathetically, “I believe in you. Bow does, as well.”

“We wouldn’t get this far without you. No one’s going to blame you if you made a mistake,” Bow says. “You’re still human.”

Adora exhales. “Thank you guys. It’s just— it just gets too much sometimes.”

(Maybe she’s more nervous about the fact of _who_ could be in the audience.)

**. . .**

**Worldwide Trends**

1 **#MMAs  
** 1.09M Tweets

2 **#TheAllianceXMMAs  
** 994.2K Tweets

3 **Heart**  
707K Tweets

4 **#Catradora**  
553.5K Tweets

5 **#SundayMotivation**  
301.9K Tweets

**. . .**

“Are you seeing this, Scorpia?” Catra asks. She leans her head on the airplane seat.

“Yeah. The sky is so beautiful today,” Scorpia says, looking out at the window.

“No.” Catra groans, rubbing her eyes with her palms. “Twitter trends. Worldwide.”

“Oh, yeah!” Scorpia chuckles. “I saw that. _Hashtag Sunday Motivation_. Like, they’re right. Anything _is_ possible if you believe in it.”

Catra sighs, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

She spots her opened handbag at the bottom of her seat, seeing the black box. _FOR CATRA,_ it taunts her.

She wonders if the song sounds different now.

**: : :**

(“No, I can’t do the dirty dancing lift right _now_.”

“I can’t believe you abide by the rules like that,” Catra answers. “You are so lame.”

Adora gasps. “Did you just call me lame?”

Catra tilts her head, a smirk playing on her lips. “Did I stutter?”

“In my completely rational defense,” Adora says, “We are literally in the middle of an antique store. With antiques,” she motions around them, “in every corner.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t you have something to buy?” Catra asks. “We should have gone window shopping at the fashion districts. At least that’s more exciting than,” she swipes her finger on a table, “dust bunnies.”

“As if I’d buy anything designer,” Adora rolls her eyes, “It’s too much excess. I want to own something of worth, like a treasured memory. A _scholarly_ hobby,” she says, pressing her index finger and thumb together.

“You mean a waste of space.”

Shaking her head, Adora walks off. Catra’s hovering near the entrance, looking outside at the people milling about in the sidewalks. There’s something in one of the nooks of the antique store that catches Adora’s eyes, a dark blue Walkman. When opened, there’s a blank cassette tape inside it. There’s an idea forming in Adora’s head, slowly coming to life.

“No,” she whispers, “it’s for you.”

“What did you say?” Catra asks, turning around.

“Nothing. Let’s go,” she says, nodding at Catra to leave the store.

She ends up buying it when she comes back a week later alone.)

**: : :**

“You’re wearing… an outfit literally worth an entire house,” Glimmer comments as she looks up and down at Adora’s outfit. It’s a grey custom _Louis Vuitton_ blazer with a black _Tom Ford_ turtleneck and trousers. It’s expensive without trying, sleek and elegant.

(She knows she looks good.)

“It’s classy!” Adora defends. “And it’s not an entire house. That’s an over-exaggeration.”

“Your watch alone is seven fifty grand,” Glimmer points out as they’re walking out of the parking lot, their ride coming into view.

“Wow,” Bow exhales, “That is one _huge_ limousine.”

“Do we really need that huge of a car to cross the street?” Adora asks.

“Just Artist of the Decade things,” Glimmer says, making Adora laugh.

“God that made me so nervous.” Adora wrings her hands and does a long exhale, stretching her neck.

“Don’t worry,” Bow says, “We’re here because we deserve it.” He puts a hand on Adora’s shoulder.

As they settle inside the limousine, Bow immediately takes out his phone. “Let’s take a picture and I’ll post it on our Instagram.”

**. . .**

_Liked by_ **adorasgiggles** _and_ **3,568,920 others  
thealliance **On the way to the MMAs — we’ll see you soon! #TheAllianceXMMAs  
 _View all 59,738 comments  
_ **goldenglimmer** THE WAY YALL GONNA EAT THIS SHIT UP…… IM NOT READY #MMAs  
 **bowtothemoon** any comments on #catradora?

**. . .**

**Mystacor Music Awards** **✓** @MMAs · 10m  
@theAlliance has arrived to the #MMAs red carpet! #TheAllianceXMMAs

**queenie** @heavenlybows · 10m  
 _Replying to_ @MMAs  
HELLO!??! THEY LOOK LIKE MODELS,,, LORD… MY MARBLES #TheAllianceXMMAs

**ADORA ENTHUSIAST** @streamadoras · 9m  
 _Replying to_ @MMAs  
ASK THEM ABOUT CATRADORA SHDHAS #TheAllianceXMMAs

**. . .**

The second they come out of their limousine, the cameras start flashing. It doesn’t come from any singular direction, there are screams from the fans who are behind the metal barricades, other A and B-List celebrities and their publicists and their bodyguards all around them. It’s nothing they haven’t seen before; the press and glamour are now a constant in their lives.

Juliet motions them to the red carpet, their presence electric and it courses through the whole area. Countless spotlights are illuminating their path while a red rope barrier separates them from the paparazzi.

_Everyone look here! Look here!_ and incoherent shouts of their names were thrown at them. Natural and poised. Smile, look at another camera, repeat. It’s a dance they’ve practiced over and over again. When they walk off the red carpet, they’re headed off to the interview relays but—

A man wearing a VIP pass — public relations, it says — grabs Adora and pushes her back to the red carpet.

“What are you doing?”

There’s a scream when she comes back to the paparazzi’s field of vision. She looks back and sees the man talking to Bow and Glimmer, who are watching her closely. She turns around and sees her walking to the red carpet.

Catra.

She's wearing a tailored _Karl Lagerfeld_ pantsuit. It's a grey blazer with a plunging neckline without a shirt underneath, paired with ankle-length trousers and six-inch gold _Gucci_ heels. Her right hand is hidden in her pocket, a sway to her hips with her fierce stare. Adora’s mouth dries and she swallows.

“Adora, come closer!” One of the paparazzi shouts and there’s a chorus of agreement. Obliging, she walks closer to Catra.

Catra doesn’t make a move to acknowledge her.

Adora stands next to her, flinging her hands behind her back. The Mystacor Music Awards red carpet is in a state of frenzy, the fans taking pictures as well, almost indistinguishable from the paparazzi, and she hears one of the reporters shout, “Put your arm around her waist!”

She looks to Catra as if saying _are you okay with that?_ and Catra nods, only noticeable in her eyes with their distance, and Adora does as she was told.

When Adora touches Catra’s waist, she almost resists pulling her closer, the feeling of skin to skin addicting. There’s an urge she can’t fight, like skydiving from space and exploring abandoned churches and ancient statues. She couldn’t stop it if she tried.

She leans closer to Catra, her lips brushing against her ear. To the public, it looks like she’s kissing her neck. “Why didn’t you answer my texts?” Adora whispers, low and vibrating, rumbling in her throat.

There’s a hitch in Catra’s breath, and Adora could see the goosebumps erupting on her skin. She shivers. Adora drinks it all in. “I was busy,” Catra grits through her teeth, and to the public’s perception, she’s smiling in reaction to Adora.

“Mhm,” Adora mutters, moving back, not before letting her nose brush against Catra’s cheek.

They don’t exchange any more words after that.

**: : :**

(They’re friends, Adora tells herself.

They’re friends in the way that Catra’s bathroom has an extra toothbrush for her and her kitchen has an extra mug for morning coffees and her living room has a keyboard set up at the corner near the windows. Their mornings start to smell like French roast and muttered conversations, then slowly there are pages of sheet music littered on the table in front of the television, on the couch. There’s her white turtleneck and her old letterman jacket inside Catra’s closet, and it starts to smell less like her but more of Catra.

That’s the way Adora and Catra become friends, like how oil in canvas makes a masterpiece in art galleries and how sunflowers bloom in grasslands.

When Catra opens the door to her apartment, there’s the familiar sound of piano notes. That’s how Adora lives in her life, in her apartment. Music flows from her home now. It’s the same sound Catra heard from that day in that empty theater, like curtain calls and moonlight in rivers and words that were almost said.

Her footsteps are light as she walks towards the living room, lifting her shoulder bag over her head and hanging it on the wooden coat rack. There’s one lamp open, coating the room in soft orange light, mixed with green from the light coming from the curtains. There’s the sound of a vinyl playing, skipping every five seconds.

Although she was quiet, Adora still looks up. Their gazes meet and Catra feels the familiar warmth course through her. “Hey,” she says.

“Hi yourself,” Adora says, smiling at her. There are café terraces and wheat fields with cypresses in her smile, Van Gogh-esque like the countryside villages in England and bedroom balconies in Paris.

“What are you playing?”

Adora looks down at the keyboard, saying, “It’s the song when we first met. I never really finished it.”

When Catra reaches Adora, she shuffles over to make room for Catra. It’s automatic, a natural reflex. It’s how they got used to each other, always there. Catra sits down next to her. “Oh? Are you writing any lyrics for it?”

Adora shakes her head. “I’m trying. I _do_ have an idea,” she looks at Catra, “I just think it’s too much. It’s too emotional. I’d be telling strangers about myself. Don’t— don’t you think that too personal?”

“It’s too emotional,” Catra repeats dryly. “I think that’s bullshit.”

Adora blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“Isn’t music supposed to be like that? Showing your most vulnerable parts? Isn’t it an extension of yourself?” Catra asks, narrowing her eyes at her.

Adora breathes, shaky. “No one wants to listen to that. It’s not what sells.”

“Is that what you want?” Catra asks in a whisper. “To be famous?”

Adora stops playing. The room falls into a tense silence. None of them make a move.

“I guess you’re right,” Adora says, biting her bottom lip, “I don’t want to make music that doesn’t have any meaning.” She swallows. “How was your day?”

Taken aback by the shift in the conversation, Catra recovers easily. “Like hell,” she says in a scoff, “Shadow Weaver was a bitch — as always — and I spilled water all over myself from those stupid kitchen faucets.”

“Don’t you have two extra shirts in the employee locker room for that?” Adora asks and Catra laughs.

“When did you learn how to count?”

“Shut up.” Adora smiles. “I know my math.”

“Okay, Einstein.” Catra rolls her eyes. “You may be good at math but not at electronics.” At Adora’s raised eyebrow, she continues, “It’s the skipping record player. You’re scratching the vinyl.”

“Oh!” Adora says as she stands up and walks over to the record player, changing the vinyl to another one. She smiles at Catra, holding out a hand. “Do you want to dance?”

It’s seven in the evening, and they haven’t ordered dinner yet. An old classic plays in the record player, and it’s a song Catra doesn’t recognize but probably heard somewhere on the radio. The living room is small but it connects to the kitchen. They dance there, her home a dance floor only for them.

They eat dinner two hours later.)

**: : :**

When Adora catches up to Bow and Glimmer, she steps in an interview with a blonde holding a mic with _E!_ printed on it.

“Adora! I’m glad you caught up,” the interviewer asks, her voice high-pitched in Adora’s ears.

“Yeah, yeah.” Adora smiles and waves at the camera. “Something unexpected came up.”

“Speaking of,” the interviewer says, “What was _that_ earlier in the red carpet? Are you two dating?”

“Uh,” Adora chuckles, scratching the back of her head, “We’re very good friends.”

“Did you know that — ever since this morning — the two of you have been on worldwide trending?”

Adora shrugs. “It came up once or twice, yeah. But rumors are rumors, you know that.”

“Okay.” The interviewer looks down on her cue card. “What do you guys feel about being crowned the artist of the decade tonight?”

“It’s such a great honor,” Bow says. “We’re still in shock.”

“Okay, can you reveal anything about your performance tonight? Something for all of us,” she motions around them, “to look forward to?”

The three of them share a look. Glimmer nods. “There will be a surprise, but that’s for you guys to watch out for later.”

They leave it at that.

**. . .**

They’re heading to the theater after six more interviews, Adora drinking a bottle of water. The entrance is small; only for them. The area is modern, floor-to-ceiling windows and dark blue carpeted floors, signed picture frames of old-school artists who have walked the same halls.

When they open the entrance, the entire place is packed from the lower to upper levels. They’re immediately spotted, and the volume of the crowd is deafening. They wave at nowhere in particular, following Juliet to their seats.

The award show itself goes by quickly — they win Favorite Group, Song, and Album for Pop or Rock — and it feels like minutes before they’re called to their caravan again to change into their new outfits and are now walking backstage. They’re given their respective mics and the neon blue lights of the stage shine on their faces. They’re waiting until their names are announced.

Adora takes a deep breath, closing her eyes.

**: : :**

(“You’re afraid of water?” Adora asks, her mouth open. “Are you serious? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well, I never knew it would matter!”

It was Catra’s birthday, and Adora planned a surprise. Not that it went well, anyway. They’re boating in Central Park, the lake surrounding them in all directions. The skyline hovers in the background, the sun shining in small blades through the clouds. There’s not a lot of people in their area, and Catra is holding on to Adora’s hand hard enough to make her stop rowing.

“Look,” Adora says, looking sheepish, “I’m sorry. I really didn’t know.”

And then Catra looks to Adora, seeing her look genuinely apologetic. “It’s… fine,” she grits out, “I know you didn’t know.”

“I thought it would be sweet, you know?” Adora says. “I was going to give you another present before we’d… I don’t know. Have lunch or something.”

“You have another present?”

“Yeah.” Adora reaches into her small black knapsack, taking out her gift. Upon closer inspection, it’s a dark blue Walkman and a pair of headphones.

“When did you get that?” Catra asks. “Is that for me?”

“Of course it is. But it’s not all of it,” Adora says. She takes out a black box and hands it over to Catra, who only looks at it. “Open it.”

When she opens the box, there’s a cassette tape labeled _Heart_. “Is… this the song you wrote for me?”

There’s a faint blush on Adora’s cheeks. She bites her lip, saying, “Yeah. I want you to listen to it.”

She places the cassette tape in the Walkman, pressing play. It sounds amateur, like it was recorded without a microphone. There’s a strum of the guitar, then it stops. “Uh,” Adora’s voice comes through the speaker. “Happy birthday, Catra. When I first played this song, I never really had an idea what to do with it. I got inspired one day and began jotting down lyrics on a notepad, but I thought it was too personal and I didn’t want to actually do it. But,” she exhales, “someone told me that music is an extension of yourself, the most vulnerable version you can show. This song… it’s for you, Catra. I hope you enjoy it.”

The song plays. It sounds beautiful and wistful. It’s soft and tender. _I know a girl and she has a heart of gold,_ Adora’s voice comes through, _her eyes are my sunsets, like_ _oceans back home._

“Adora…” Catra says. She’s speechless. She keeps herself still, even when her body is wanting, wanting, wanting to be closer to Adora. Her head is spinning like an asteroid falling into her orbits, Adora’s feelings, Catra’s feelings, the New York summer and folk music, lakes and cassette tapes.

_I want to fly away, I want to write your name in the skies. I was made for you, will you be mine?_ The bridge finishes, and Adora’s plucking the strings, the volume lowering and lower, the song ending with, _I promise that I’ll be tender with your heart._

Breathing out, the emotions are flooding all at once. Adora, Adora, Adora. It’s all in her veins racing in her system, in her lungs with every breath, in her mind with every thought. She’s there and everywhere, in front of her and holding her hand.

“What did you think?” Adora asks, voice lowered to a whisper. She’s uncertain, after all, it was a confession, brave and bold, laying down all her cards for Catra, telling her _this is all I have._ Her lips are parted, and Catra knows that Adora _sees_ her eyes flicker down. Catra leans forward and—)

**: : :**

“—isn’t that true?” Catra’s voice breaks Adora out of her daydream. “We’re all made from something. Life passes. We go through phases. We fall in love. We spend our lives, thinking little of the minimal things, coffee shops and theater shows, hidden restaurants and antique shops. We grow up with it, and beside us there’s music. A song from your childhood, your edgy pre-teens, your breakup.” She takes a breath. “That’s art. There’s not a lot of people who can say that they can create something that personal, to be brave enough to share a side of themselves no one else would’ve seen. To make music that has meaning. Music that anyone around the world can listen to. They are one of the only modern pop artists that has achieved what they already have, touching hearts all over the world. This is,” she looks to the audience, "The Alliance.”

The lights turn off and the audience screams, their phones lighting up the dark stage. There it is, Adora thinks. The reason she does this. It’s in every note, in every scream, and in every lyric. It’s for the love of music.

The stage is pitch black. There’s a sound that seems like a recording playing backwards, the pitch going lower and lower and lower until it can barely be discernible by the ear. It starts to pick back up, the note a higher pitch than before, random like a scratch on a vinyl record. The lights appear in different parts of the stage, in waves of different colors in the large screen — pink, black, white — a jumbled mesh, random and never expecting.

A drum hit. The stage is awash with white light, Bow’s silhouette appearing. The fans scream louder.

The stage goes dark again. Adora and Glimmer walk on stage, their silhouettes visible as well. The volume of the music increases, louder and louder and—

Another bright flash.

A guitar riff pierces through the speakers, on overdrive with a distorted tone, and the three of them are now coated in pink neon lights.

They’re performing their single before the new one, _Shot in The Dark_. It’s old-school with a retro feel. Adora’s right hand is on the bass synthesizer playing a moving bass line, traveling with fervor across the keys, with her left hand on another keyboard playing funk-inspired chords, wavy in pitch and frequencies. It comes together with Bow’s drumline, keeping the rhythm with choppy beats and snare fills.

_The night is young and so are we,_ Adora sings to the microphone, _I’m taking a shot in the dark so why don’t you come home with me?_ The audience knows every word, singing even louder than her. When the second chorus comes, Adora takes out her earpiece and points her microphone to the audience, and they’re singing along.

The next songs in their medley comes, _Roll With It_ and _White Out_ , and it sounds more rock than pop. The song itself is sexy, the lyrics sensual and suggestive. The lights switch to orange, turning off and on to Bow’s drumbeats, the smoke machines billowing out and there’s pyrotechnics, fire lighting up the stage all around them. Adora takes off her jacket, leaving her sleeveless black dress shirt on, and throws it into the pit, the crowd scrambling to take it.

The next songs that come are slower, _Ties That Bind_ and _Destiny_ , two ballads that went into the top ten. The fires are put out, but the smoke machines are still there. The audience claps in beat during the bridge, and there’s no one in the crowd that isn’t standing up when the song ends.

Once again, the stage goes pitch black again. They walk backstage in a rush, and Adora wipes the sweat off her face when a stagehand brings her a towel and a guitar. It’s an acoustic _Martin_ , and it feels heavy as she puts the strap over her shoulder.

“You got this, Adora,” Bow whispers as he puts an arm on her shoulder. She exhales through her mouth.

“We’ll be there with you.” Glimmer smiles at her while the crowd is calling them again, and Adora feels a burst of courage in her.

She walks to the stage again.

**. . .**

“I love their songs so much,” Scorpia says. “The crowd is feeling it!” She shouts a _whoo!_ when the stage lights turn dark, and the three of them leave the stage.

“Are they done now?” Catra asks. Ever since Adora’s band started, she’s waiting in her seat from the front row. The camera always points at her during every suggestive lyric, but she’s conscious enough to keep her face neutral.

“No, they still have to perform their new song.” Scorpia gasps. “I’m so excited! Go, Alliance, go!” She screams, pumping her fist in the air and waving it around, making the people behind her groan.

“Scorpia, this is not the Super Bowl,” Catra says, hiding her face behind her hands. Her voice is drowned out by another wave of fans screaming, and she looks up to see the plain spotlights on the band.

“So, uh,” Adora starts. She’s sitting on a wooden stool, and next to her is Bow and Glimmer. They have their respective microphone stands propped up in front of them, but Adora is the only one holding an instrument. “This is our new single. It may be unusual, but this is a different version of the song.” Catra watches as Adora looks to Glimmer for help, but she only nods, urging Adora on. “This is the first demo of the song, written when I was seventeen and was very much in love.” Adora keeps her eyes on the guitar on her lap. Catra can only hear the heartbeat in her ears. “Years have passed, and we’re older, grown.” She swallows. “But still, no matter how much time flies by, in every year, every month, every day, this song will always be for you.”

She begins strumming on the guitar, and the crowd, for the first time in a while, finally goes quiet. Adora sings the lead, Glimmer and Bow in the background with a supporting harmony, strong and not a note out of tune. The music is soft and familiar, but only to Catra.

It’s the same song, the same chords on a different instrument — seventeen and listening behind the curtains, when the song was incomplete and unknown; months later, hearing the lyrics write itself into the song, like it was finding its way home, a vinyl player cracking and laughter in tune; on her birthday, listening in a lake in Central Park from a cassette player bought from an antique store in Brooklyn; five years later, in a crowd of a show of Madison Square Garden, seeing each other for the first time in a while.

(The universe is playing some kind of cosmic joke.

It’s astounding.)

_And I was made for you, I hope you know I’m the one for you,_ the lyrics say. Adora opens her eyes as she slows down. Her eyes scan the crowd, and when she sees Catra, she expects her to move her gaze away, but Adora locks their eyes. Plucking the last notes, an F sharp, then a C sharp, Adora sings the last line, _I promise to be tender with your heart._

It ends and there’s no one who isn’t sitting, people are clapping and shouting loudly. Catra walks back up to the stage, holding their award and a microphone. “It is my honor to present the Artist of the Decade award,” she pauses, letting the audience simmer down, “to The Alliance!”

The band walks down the stage, and Catra knows that everyone in the press is waiting with bated breath to see their interaction. Glimmer reaches her first, taking the award from her hands and giving a polite shoulder hug. Bow does as well, with her muttering _congrats_. Then, Adora is next and Catra offers her a handshake, with Adora taking it and hugging her. It’s like they’re back in Milan, in a restaurant, without the press looming over them like a dark crowd.

“I mean it,” Adora whispers to her ear, “I still mean every word.” Then letting go, she offers Catra a smile. Glimmer starts their speech, but Catra can’t hear a word she said.

_Does she really?_

**. . .**

**Adora Grayskull** **✓** @therealadoragrayskull · 3h  
thank you thank you thank you so much!! me and the gang @glimmer @bowalliance are still in disbelief. it’s unbelievable. thank you @MMAs and thank you guys for such a crazy reception to #heart!! i love you so much!!

**g a b b y** @destinyalliance · 3h  
 _Replying to_ @therealadoragrayskull  
SAY SOMETHING ABOUT #CATRADORA PLEASE

**Em.** @adoravogues · 3h  
 _Replying to_ @therealadoragrayskull  
OMFG IS SHE SAYING “I LOVE YOU” TO CATRA………. THE LONGING…. THE YEARNING…..

**tyler (fan account)** @rollingbows · 3h  
 _Replying to_ @adoravogues _and_ @therealadoragrayskull  
SOMETHING SHIFTED…. POINTS WERE MADE OMFG YOUR BRAIN…..

**kelly** @glimmerout · 3h  
 _Replying to_ @rollingbows @adoravogues _and_ @therealadoragrayskull  
the reach……

**. . .**

Adora is disappointed in herself, really. Maybe she had too much expectations, too much wishes. Maybe it was because the sudden burst of courage had already died out, leaving her numb. She couldn’t even attend the VIP after-party or one of the smaller ones with the fans. How could she even lie to herself? It was Catra.

It was always Catra.

She never approached her after the presentation, not when they brushed shoulders backstage after, or in the press room after the show.

She’s in the hallway of her hotel floor, trying to find her card in the pockets of her blazer. She’s about to swipe it when she hears footsteps in the hallway.

Turning around, she sees her.

“Catra,” she says, “What are you doing here?”

“Why did you do it?” Catra asks. There’s a slur in her voice, and Adora knows Catra is drunk. “Why did you play it? Is it fun? Is it fun playing with my head?” She comes closer to Adora, pointing at her chest. “Are you some kind of masochist now? Is it all the _fame_?”

“Catra…” Adora whispers. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” Catra takes Adora’s jaw, forcing her to look at her. Catra’s eyes are drooping, and she’s clearly exhausted. “What do you want to stop?”

“Stop this,” Adora says. “You’re clearly drunk. Where’s your hotel key? I can take you there.”

“You need to learn how to be selfish. To take what you want.” She trails a finger from her neck to her jaw. It’s intimate. It’s _devastating_. “Don’t you want me, Adora?”

“I…” Adora is breathless, unable to say a word.

“You still mean it, don’t you? You still _want_ me.” Catra’s angry enough to say it. “You still want my heart. Why can’t you show me how?”

“Catra.” Adora takes Catra’s shoulders. “I do, I still do. But… we can talk later in the morning. What have you been drinking?”

“Anything to get drunk,” Catra says, caressing Adora’s jaw, leaning in her touch. Catra closes her eyes. “Tell me you still do.”

“I still what?”

“Don’t play games with me. Tell me,” Catra means something, and Adora knows it.

Adora exhales, shakily. They’re doing this. They’re _really_ doing this. “I do. I still—”

_Flash._

They both turn their heads around, and see a man holding a camera.

Adora’s eyes widen, and she shouts, “Hey!” And she watches the man bolt down the stairs.

“Fuck,” Adora says, turning to Catra, whose eyes are closed. Her breaths are even, and she’s asleep. “ _Fucking_ fuck.”

She hopes it doesn’t blow up in their faces the next day.

(It does.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've always wanted to add the tweets and ig posts but it never really fit in the other chapters, and this was the perfect time to add cuz i'm sure y'all know how the tl gets during award show days sigh... i miss her
> 
> and yeah the song heart here is a song i actually wrote myself,, ofc i'm no soundcloud artist and you know music is subjective so you can just imagine the melody in your head sdajksh
> 
> (p.s. i may be late for a few days in posting the next chapter... life has been pretty busy lately... shocked and upset)
> 
> anyway thank you to my betas jinnie and imsodon3 you're queens... and thank YOU so much for the kudos, comments, and bookmarks!! just know that i do appreciate every single one of them :) let me know what you guys thought of this chapter! again thank you so much for reading!


	5. like someone in love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! dropping in to say that there will be a scene with heavily suggestive themes in this chapter, so if you're uncomfortable with that, feel free to skip the flashback in the library - YES i know how that sounds but it isn't like that sdkjshak
> 
> enjoy!

Adora wakes up to her phone vibrating in the bedside table — it’s absolutely too early for this. Rolling over to the left side of the bed, her half-lidded eyes spot a figure draped in the hotel’s thick, white comforter.

Like a bucket of cold water over her head, it shocks her awake. Slowly, she moves the comforter and sees Catra curled up. She looks peaceful like this.

There was a lifetime before this one — when it was the two of them. Just the two of them. In the morning, Catra with her warm hands and honey dripping from her lips; in the afternoon, sleeping with her head on Catra’s chest, safe in her embrace; in the night, hands shaking and the moon beyond as their only companions.

She moves her hand away. Adora sits up and settles on the edge of the bed, turning her phone on. There are some missed calls from Bow, Glimmer, and their manager, Angella. Sighing, she puts her phone on silent and takes the menu on top of the drawer. She wonders if Catra still likes avocado toast.

Reaching over to take the hotel phone, she hears rustling from the sheets.

“Adora?”

Mentally preparing herself, she takes a deep breath and turns around.

Catra looks good. Good like she always does. Like love in the summer, fireworks in her eyes and miracles from granted prayers. Awash in the sunlight coming from the suite’s floor-to-ceiling windows, holding the comforter close to her chest. Adora’s almost tempted to sidle closer to her — she stays at the edge.

“Did we… did we do it?” Catra asks, voice rough and deep from sleep.

The question is so blunt and unexpected that it takes Adora a second to recover, to let the words sink in. “Uh,” she says, articulate like a scholar, “Did we do what?”

“Knit _fucking_ yarns, Adora. It’s morning. I can’t remember shit. I wake up next to you. In a bed.” Catra narrows her eyes. “ _Together_. What do you think I’m asking?”

She swallows, throat bobbing. “Are— are you asking if we…” Adora trails off, unable to finish the sentence.

“Had sex?” Catra asks. “Fucked? Engaged in intercourse? I have a thesaurus to lend if you need it.”

“It’s too early for this,” Adora mutters, bringing her palm to her forehead. “No. We didn’t.”

“Oh.” There’s surprise in Catra’s voice. “What happened last night?”

Adora looks at the bed, unable to look at Catra in the eyes. “What do you remember?”

“The award show, the god-awful after-party,” Catra lists, “Did you attend that as well? I don’t remember anything after that.”

“Oh.” She repeats Catra’s words dumbly. “Cool.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Well,” Adora starts, “You came up to my floor and passed out after that.” At Catra’s silence, Adora begins to speak again. “What do you want for breakfast—”

Catra interrupts her. “Did I say something last night?”

Adora opens her mouth, closes it after. “Did you…?” She forces a laugh. “Of course you did! Conversational things.”

“Like?” Catra raises an eyebrow.

“Things like how the weather was and is the carpet too plush,” Adora says, “You know. Normal, conversational things.”

“Why can’t you look me in the eye then?”

Adora finally looks at Catra; seeing her for all she is. She’s all rumpled up on the bed, hands gripping the sheets, hair tousled back — looking as brilliant as ever. It’s like she’s seventeen again, before her roaring twenties, young and wanting and falling for a girl like her.

Adora’s throat feels suddenly dry. “I’m going to order room service. Do… do you want anything for breakfast?”

“Stop avoiding the question.”

“Do you really want to know?”

Catra is unyielding. “Would I ask if I wasn’t?”

“Fine.” Adora swallows. “You came up to me, drunk, asked me why I played Heart, asked me if I enjoyed hurting you, then a pap caught us—”

“What?”

“You came up—”

“No, you idiot. We got caught?”

Adora looks away. “…Yeah.”

“Does anyone know?”

“Look,” Adora murmurs, “I haven’t checked my phone since I woke up.”

“You made me sleep in your bed after that.”

Adora stays silent, but then realizes she shouldn’t. “I’m sorry. I should’ve slept on the couch. I was tired.”

“No. It’s fine.” It’s disconnected and cold, Catra’s voice. Conversations like these were hard in the morning, and in all the hours of the day.

Adora purses her lips. “How are you feeling? I can get you some pain relievers. There’s a convenience store somewhere down the block I think,” she says.

“It’s fine. I can handle a headache.”

There’s silence following shortly after that, and the weight of the tension nearly crushes her bones, tears her skin. After all, broken things can be broken to more pieces—

Catra breaks the silence. “Why did you play it?”

“Do… do you really want to know?” Her voice is a whisper, the foundation of a building, of old churches and stained glasses and ancient organs from a lifetime they never lived in. Supposed it’s a start.

“Yeah.” Catra looks at her. “Why not?”

“It felt right.”

“Right?” Catra asks.

“I wanted to release the song. I wanted to show the world a part of me they’ve never seen.”

“Is that what I am to you?” Catra asks. “A memory to make money out of?”

“No!” Adora exclaims, her hands balling up into fists. “It’s not like that. It’s… It’s not about money. It was never about that.”

“Then why?” Catra’s voice begins to tremble a little, vulnerable, a battleship sinking in the waves, a tree falling down in an overgrown forest. “Why did you do it?”

“Catra,” Adora says, looking at Catra like she’s looked at her ever since the day they met, like it was always for the first time. “Catra… I still—”

“Don’t.”

“You asked me to say that last night,” Adora says, biting her bottom lip.

Catra looks away from her stare, feeling like she’s being burned by the sun, vanilla-hot summers and road trips through the interstates. “I don’t want to hear it now.”

“I’m sorry.” There’s guilt coursing through Adora, guilt like red wine and rooftops underneath the skies. “You aren’t just something to make money from. You aren’t… you aren’t just a memory to me. You always mean something to me, even after all we’ve been through.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“You’ll always be with me. With all our history,” Adora says.

“Can’t we move on from that? Why does it always have to be there?”

Adora feels honest. She feels like she’ll bear it all. It’s the morning sun and Catra and the distance between them that makes her feel honest. “I’m not sure if I will.”

Catra is silent. There’s the universe in her eyes, the taste of ocean air and evergreen forests in her heart, blooming like the gardens Adora used to tend after her. There’s something about her honesty that’s a little raw, like fleeting romances in Vienna and firewood in her lips — burning, burning, burning.

Catra slowly reaches out a hand to Adora, brushing it with her own. Adora stays unmoving, feeling the warmth emanating from Catra’s palm. She can feel her thumb brushing over the back of her own hand, soft and all-too-familiar. It hurts, stings a little bit.

“Catra,” Adora says, “I think… I think if you don’t ever want to see me again or if you want me out of your life, I need to hear you say it.” There should be a storm overhead, headlights flickering, lips bleeding. There isn’t. In fact, there’s a sunbeam over the two of them, unable to feel her heartbeat, to feel the internal war inside.

Catra looks down to their hands, gripping Adora’s tighter. “There’s— there’s so much to talk about. So many things we should’ve said, apologies to be made. I don’t think I’m ready yet for that conversation,” she whispers, and it sounds like a beginning, a restart, a second chance. “Maybe… maybe we can still be friends.”

There’s motion now; Adora can feel Catra’s hand leaving hers and watches it close to a fist, pinky finger extending. There’s a strange sense of relief that washes over Adora, like lakewater and fireflies and a breath of fresh air. She interlocks her pinky with Catra’s, pressing their thumbs together.

Adora looks at her, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Friends.”

(And that is the way Catra and Adora become friends again.)

**. . .**

“Adora.” Angella looks up from the documents littered across her table, observing her as she sits down on the chair in front of her table. “Glad to see you.”

“Same,” Adora says, interlocking her hands together on top of her lap. “Life has been crazy.”

“I’m sure it is.” There’s a hint of amusement in Angella’s voice. “I think you know the reason why I asked for a personal meeting.”

“Is it because of Catra?” Adora asks, grimacing.

Angella nods in confirmation. “Have you looked at any of your social media lately?”

“Absolutely not,” Adora says, “I already know it will be a mess.”

“That’s right. Ever since TMZ had released their article, your relationship has been the topic of conversation from Page Six to entertainment talk shows and to trending topics.” Angella finally stops moving her papers around, hands resting on top of her table. “When Vogue released their video, the press has been hounding your publicists and me for any information.”

Adora takes a deep breath. “You want me to stop being seen with her.”

“No.” Angella smiles. “After all, any press is _good_ press.”

Adora raises an eyebrow, leaning back on her chair. “Wait. What do you mean?”

“Your international tour is coming up in a few weeks. You won’t be able to promote as much on the road, and we want as much press for your new single. It will hit mainstream radios next week, so we want to carry on the excitement of your fans during that time.”

“I— I’m not catching up, sorry. Do you want me to be seen with her more?”

“Not exactly,” Angella says, shaking her head. “I’ve contacted her agency earlier and they came up with an idea. You will be partnering for two projects, for your new music video and Catra’s _Guess_ campaign.”

Eyes widening, Adora swallows. "What do you want me to do?"

**: : :**

(Catra looks gorgeous against the New York skylines.

Under the moonlight, coated in Adora’s daydreams — the two of them drinking warm wine on the beach, sand coating their toes, the texture of ocean foam, and the sound of drifting waves. Instead, they’re walking on the streets, the sun setting a little too early against Adora’s wishes. Their boots crunch against the leaves on the gravel. Adora can’t stop looking at Catra.

They’re walking towards the Hayden Planetarium, and once they’re inside — there’s no one else around.

“It’s so empty,” Catra comments, walking along the exhibits, looking up at the large lifelike figures of Jupiter and Saturn above them.

“I know,” Adora says, following Catra around the room. “I looked at it on the internet. This hour has the least amount of people.”

Catra looks back at her, raising an eyebrow. “Did we sneak in? Are you planning to get us arrested on our first date?”

Adora laughs. “No. But there’s something I need to show you.” She takes out a key from her pocket and leads Catra to the space theater, an auditorium-like area, curved ceilings and endless rows of seats inside it.

“How did you even get the keys?”

Adora makes a hushing sound. “The guard owes me. It’s a super, super long story — you don’t need to know it.” Adora grins, dangerous and oh-so-attractive to Catra. “I have something special for you.” Guiding Catra to the back of the room, she points at something. “You need to pull down the lever.”

Catra does. Once the lever is pulled down, the entire room lights up, and there’s an image projected above them. It’s the universe; galaxies and constellations and burning comets all around them, space and the world far, far from their reach.

“It’s beautiful,” Catra says in a whisper, eyes glinting.

“Yeah,” Adora agrees. Catra looks down, catching Adora staring at her. Adora thinks she doesn’t mind.

Catra rolls her eyes fondly. “You are so corny.”

Adora smiles at her, but all of a sudden, she turns bashful. “Actually,” she says, scratching the back of her head, “I brought you here to ask you something.” With Catra watching her closely, Adora continues. “Will you, ah,” she stumbles over her words, “Will you be my girlfriend?”

And she looks at Catra, her blue eyes like shallow streams and the stars reflecting in them — and oh, Catra already knows her answer. They’re falling in headfirst, ignoring the warning signs, like scaling the narrow ledge of a mountain, walking through the winds of a snowstorm, all through the avalanches and the frigid winter air.

Catra breathes, a lifetime expanding within the space of her silence, full of doubt and want and longing. Adora grimaces, saying, “I— I’m sorry. I thought you—”

Catra stands on her tiptoes and kisses her.

Adora closes her eyes, stumbling back in surprise, a soft _mmph_ releasing from her throat. Catra brings her hands up to Adora’s neck as Adora places her hands on Catra’s waist, kissing her back.

It’s clumsy and new, noses bumping, overcome with the adrenaline of crash landing into each other. Adora couldn’t help herself; she smiles into the kiss, almost laughing. Catra breaks it and Adora touches their foreheads together, unable to stop her smile. Catra moves her hands from Adora’s neck to her jaw, lightly touching it and placing a small peck to her lips.

And maybe that was it — maybe there was a star in the sky that was named after Catra, how could it not? She suddenly understands why poets write their poems and how painters make masterpieces — maybe it was all about girls like Catra, splitting the earth in half with every kiss, enveloping her in passion and the never-ending feeling of want, want, want.

“That was kind of a fail,” Adora whispers, “Can I kiss you again?” _and again, and again,_ she wants to say. They are growing a garden with their kisses — the fresh smell of hyacinths and making wishes upon daffodils ( _does she want me, does she want me not,_ Adora picks the petals, repeating like a dance) — the flowers blooming in their chests, for them and only them.

Catra only smiles, tugs on Adora’s letterman jacket, and kisses her again.

They leave the planetarium half an hour later.)

**: : :**

_meet me at the bakery cafe in west 3rd street,_ the text Catra sent her an hour ago stands still.

 _ok,_ Adora typed back, and now, she’s standing in front of the café in the middle of Los Angeles.

“Hey, Adora.” She looks up from her phone, sees Catra walking over to her. Catra’s wearing a loose-fitting white silk dress shirt, four buttons all unbuttoned, tucked into beige wool trousers. She’s holding a cup of coffee in her hand, shades in the other.

Adora puts her phone in her pocket, smiles at Catra. “Hi,” she says. She doesn’t move.

“I, uh,” Catra stammers, unnaturally so, “I got you something. I know you don’t like coffee after breakfast, so I got you that obscure candy bar you liked.” She takes the item from her pocket, Adora’s eyes widening in surprise.

“I… I didn’t know you remembered that,” Adora says. She fights the teasing grin that threatens to sneak up on her face.

“Just take it, you idiot,” Catra says, rolling her eyes. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

Adora takes the candy bar, unwrapping it and taking a bite out of it. It’s as good as she remembers.

“Are you planning to stay here or go inside the restaurant?”

“Right, right.”

As they walk in, the staff recognizes the two of them in an instant, eyes widening and mouth gaping. There’s a checkered blanket over the table, and they take the seats in front of each other.

“You know, this reminds me of your old blanket. The one for picnics,” Adora says, “What happened to that, by the way?”

“I don’t remember, honestly.” Catra shrugs. The waitress puts two glasses of water on their table, handing them their menus.

“It’s kind of crazy, actually.” Adora chuckles, feeling the blanket between her fingertips. “I remembered one time—”

“Has your manager talked to you already?”

Raising her eyebrows at the interruption, Adora asks, “How did you know that?”

“Because _my_ agent talked to me.” Catra leans forward on the table. “It was earlier this morning.”

“Huh.” Adora takes a sip of the water, thinking. “What do you think about that?”

“It’s good for our careers, I guess.” The waitress comes back, and they only order drinks. Two beers for Adora, a mojito for Catra. “How about you? I’m sure your schedule is already _packed_.”

“It’s not, actually. It’s new, though. I haven’t done anything like that before, unless you count magazine covers.”

“Magazine covers? Well—” A flash. They both turn to their right, seeing a teenager holding their phone up to them. With Catra’s glare, they put it down slowly, smiling in apology.

“They’re probably tweeting about us,” Adora whispers to Catra, leaning in like it’s a secret.

“Please.” Catra shakes her head. “Have you seen the actual tweets? Like their edits and manips of us. They even have an _update account_. It’s insane.”

Adora laughs. “It _is_ kind of funny if you think about it.”

Catra nods, and the waitress brings back their drinks. A comfortable silence falls over them, while the music in the restaurant speakers changes songs in the background.

Catra perks up. “Wait. I know this song. Do you?”

“Uh,” Adora mutters, paying attention to the music, “I had a CD of this. I probably played it on your old record player.”

“Well.” Catra stands up and walks over to Adora’s side, extending her hand. “We’re already here, the management gave us the green light, and people here are giving us side glances every ten seconds. Why the hell not?”

Adora stares at the hand, then at Catra. “What do you want to do?”

“Dance with me,” Catra says, a glint in her eye, the one Adora knows is always up to something.

“What?” Adora asks, looking around. “Isn’t— isn’t it a little embarrassing?”

“You’re embarrassed now?”

People are starting to look at them, some subtly (but failing) to record them. Adora hides her face in her hands. “What’s gotten into you?” She asks through her hands.

“Is the pop superstar Adora Grayskull shy? Embarrassed?” Catra moves closer to Adora, walking behind her chair and putting her hands on her shoulders, whispering in her ear, “I thought you still mean every word.”

There’s a shiver that runs down her spine. “You’re going to be the end of me, I swear.” Getting up, she sees Catra smile, victory at the corners of her mouth and — and maybe Adora would do it again, if that is what it takes.

And that’s the reason why, in warm afternoon and the air swelling with music, they danced in the restaurant. They dance near their table, around bright Christmas lights set up slinking between the ceiling fans, with the three people in the restaurant watching them and the old manager watching them near the doorframe. Like they were in their apartment, with the couch and the kitchen and the mugs and Catra’s laughter. Like they were seventeen again.

(There’s something calling to her, something like — like pulling Catra to her arms, leaning her cheek against hers and closing her eyes to the music. Letting the lighthouse guide her back home, to the docks, swaying with the movement of the waves and she knows to hold on, to tighten her grip on Catra.

Maybe she’d never lose her that way again.

Maybe she’ll stay.)

**. . .**

**CATRADORA UPDATES** @CatradoraNews · 1d  
BREAKING NEWS! Catra and Adora spotted EATING at a restaurant in LA today!

 **adora feet pics** @adorahours · 1d  
 _Replying to_ @CatradoraNews  
why did you capitalize eating 😭😭 what else would they do in a restaurant gnngnfnf

 **bow’s neck vein** @alliancestreet · 1d  
 _Replying to_ @CatradoraNews  
OMKSAKSJ why is there an update account?? what is there to update about like sdjaks go girl give us nothing

 **CATRADORA UPDATES** @CatradoraNews · 1d  
 _Replying to_ @alliancestreet  
Stfu<3

 **adora feet pics** @adorahours · 1d  
 _Replying to_ @CatradoraNews _and_ @alliancestreet  
#($*&# @alliancehiatus the way you got BODIED by an update account JDASKKS

 **catradora world domination** @catradoratease · 1d  
 _Replying to_ @CatradoraNews  
OH MY GOD djxjxjxkskalbrj/:/'';;'!?(2(@+ im going FERAL LIKE IM FOAMING AT THE MOUTH…. OMFGGG???

 **catra let me make you coleslaw** @givemecatra · 1d  
 _Replying to_ @CatradoraNews  
THIS GOT MY ARTERIES BLOWING UP SHIT BLOOD PRESSURE THROUGH THE ROOF

 **adora feet pics** @adorahours · 1d  
 _Replying to_ @givemecatra _and_ @CatradoraNews  
girl what are you even saying

 **catradora world domination** @catradoratease · 1d  
 _Replying to_ @givemecatra _and_ @CatradoraNews  
#$(*&$*#& I THINK YOU MEANT HEART RATE…..

**. . .**

“And why,” Catra begins, hand on her hip, “is Sparkles and Crop Top here?”

They’re in the airport — just a few minutes before they board their private flight to Santorini. Catra is standing on the tarmac, the sun beating down on them, her shades bearing the familiar _Chanel_ logo.

“Same to you,” Glimmer says, eyeing Scorpia next to her, who waves at them happily.

“We couldn’t pass up the opportunity for a good vacation!” Bow exclaims, holding the handle to his luggage bags.

“You got a problem with that?” Glimmer asks, raising an eyebrow at Catra.

Catra purses her lips, raising her shades and staring at Glimmer. There’s a beat of silence. Catra sighs. “No, I don’t.”

When they board the plane, Adora sits at the two-seater near the window, putting on her mask when she feels someone sit down next to her.

“What are you wearing?” Catra looks curiously at her mask.

“It’s my humidifier mask. You know, jet lag and all that,” Adora says. She doesn’t say a word about how large the jet is, and how there are so much more seats that wasn’t next to hers. Adora finds that she doesn’t mind.

“Are you excited for Greece?” Catra asks, leaning down and taking a book from her carrier bag — one that Adora doesn’t recognize.

“Yeah. I think I need a little vacation.” Adora swallows, and there’s a feeling that washes over her. Childlike, like hands slick with sweat, wiping it on her hand-me-down jeans before holding Catra’s hand; like biking off the road aimlessly, letting the muddy trails decide where she’ll end up; like slipping from the railings and never knowing where you’ll fall.

Catra smiles at her and — and there are butterflies in Adora’s chest. She’s old enough to know better, so she doesn’t stop it; she lets the feeling bloom.

“Guys,” comes Bow’s voice, making everyone look at him. “Should we take a selfie or not?”

“Do you want your fans to spontaneously combust together in flames?” Catra asks, putting on reading glasses. Adora almost smiles at that before she catches herself.

“I mean,” Glimmer says, “Isn’t that why we’re doing all of this?”

**. . .**

_Liked by_ **feelingadoras** _and_ **5,737,072 others  
bowalliance** Going somewhere… how are y’all doing?  
 _View all 100,833 comments_  
 **bowchanges** OSDASJD IS THAT CATRA AND ADORA NEXT TO EACH OTHER??? IM ABOUT TO START BARKING  
 **nightscatra** PLEASE HIW IS THIS EVEN REAL… IM SPEECHLESS… CATRADORA DETECTIVES LETS GET TO WORK

**. . .**

“Okay. Just like that.”

The photographer’s voice — Netossa, she introduced herself when they met, looks at them with her hand under her chin.

They’re somewhere in the middle of Santorini, Greece for their _Guess_ photoshoot, donning the new season collections. Catra is leaning on the white wall of the house they rented. Adora’s looking at her, elbows propped on the railings behind her. She feels a little too hot for the leather jacket, but it’s for the name of fashion, she thinks.

“Adora,” Netossa says, making her look at her, “How about… you put your left arm on the wall behind Catra. Hold her hand with your right. Make it seem personal and vulnerable.”

There’s a small wave of nervousness as she looks over to Catra. Moving closer, she can hear the clacking of her boots on the ground. When she takes Catra’s hand in hers, looking into her eyes, there’s something in it. Something golden — like lakewater during rainstorms, cherry trees in the fall, the slow burn of firelight at night. It feels a little too much, and she can feel her own pulse speed up in their proximity. Without thinking too hard, she intertwines their fingers together. Catra is looking at her with her lips parted, and Adora wants nothing more than—

“Hold.” Netossa’s voice breaks through, and she almost misses the small smile Catra gives her. Adora can’t help but return it. There’s a flash blinding them, and they both hear a mutter of _oh_ from Netossa. Looking at Netossa, they see her looking at the screen of her camera intently. She looks up at them, grinning.

“The two of you are perfect for this.”

**. . .**

There are more locations. They hold hands walking down the stairways of Santorini and there are some solo shots of Catra in the hidden nooks and alleyways before Adora is called again into the house.

“What are we supposed to do?” Adora asks, putting her hands on her waist. She surveys the room — there’s a bed with a golden bedframe on one of the walls, three pillows lying on it, stripped of its covers. There’s a window next to it, curtains drawn and letting the light shine through and fall on the bed. She looks over to Netossa, who is fixing her tripod.

“You’ll be laying on the bed. Catra will be doing some poses with you — I won’t tell you because it’s supposed to look natural,” she says, eyeing her, “I know the two of you are good at that. Use it.”

Nodding, she takes the outfit Netossa hands her, going to the corner of the room. It’s a plain white shirt, hugging her body as close as possible, making her muscles look more pronounced, paired with skinny denim jeans with _Guess_ on the back pocket.

“Ready?” She hears Netossa ask. Looking up, she sees Catra walk across the room, heading in her direction. She’s wearing a black crop top with high-waist jeans. It’s simple and sexy. Adora can’t take her eyes off of her.

Putting her arm behind her head, she maintains a cool demeanor as Catra’s head lays on her hips, the both of them looking at the camera. Her body speaks a different language — it allures and entrances Adora. It may be the way she rolls her eyes and her r’s and whispers of _te quiero_ in the dark, like hot summer nights and margaritas that overflow from their glasses, like the city lights of New York and Los Angeles.

They hold the pause for a while. Suddenly, Catra turns and looks at her in the face. Adora’s hands touch her waist and grips it tightly, and she can only see Catra. It seems like the world is muted, a distant echo from the bed they’re in. Catra moves closer to Adora, leaning their foreheads together. Adora keeps her eyes locked with Catra, never straying, never far away.

She can hear the faint shutters of the camera, the photos that will never know the feeling of tight clothing pressing against hers like that, the feeling of the pillows underneath her head, the feeling of her beating heart, and the feeling of Catra everywhere.

Their noses are almost brushing. They’re close — so, so close. Adora almost wants to close the distance between them. It looks like Catra might, her lips parting and head turning, but — but Adora doesn’t want to cross a line, so she leans in.

And bumps their noses together.

Catra’s eyes widen and a small laugh escapes her lips. “What are you doing, you absolute weirdo?”

Adora grins, forgetting they’re in the middle of a shoot. “This is for the audience.”

Catra pokes her nose and Adora scrunches it in response. “Your face is _so_ red.”

“Stop,” Adora says, tilting her head back. “You’re too close.”

“Is that so?” Catra whispers and Adora drops her eyes for a second, before coming back up.

“Uh,” Adora mutters, suddenly aware of their audience. She looks to Netossa. “Is the scene over or something?”

“Damn.” Netossa puts down her camera. “It’s done. You can come over here and review the shots.”

Without a word, Catra moves off of her and Adora suddenly misses her warmth, the smell of lavender and tulips. She watches Catra walk across the room again while she lounges on the bed.

“Wow.” Catra sounds impressed. “Damn. We looking fucking _hot_ here.” She looks at Adora and grins at her.

Adora wishes she could stay in Santorini forever.

**: : :**

(“Stop looking at me,” Catra says. There’s a hint of amusement in her voice. “You’re distracting me.”

“Says you,” Adora answers, “I’m pretty sure you’ve been staring at the same page for about ten minutes already.”

“It’s because you’re looking like a total creep right now.” Catra turns a page, slamming it, making the person on their side hush them.

“Sorry,” Adora whispers loudly and the person shoots her a glare. Catra chuckles to herself, hiding behind the book. Adora moves her chair closer to Catra. “It’s not my fault you look so gorgeous.”

There’s a blush that creeps up in the back of Catra’s neck, a smile playing in the corners of her mouth. “When did you get so smooth?”

“Honestly?” Adora asks. “It’s you. It’s all about you.”

They’re in the New York Library, eighteen and studying for their finals. There are a couple of books in front of them; stacked up neatly, highlighters and post-it notes ready at the helm. Adora can’t seem to remember the things she read, no matter how hard she stared at the textbook pages. After all, Catra is more interesting — more interesting than calculus, that is.

She looks beautiful right now, wearing one of Adora’s old shirts that say _they always say yee haw, but never ask haw yee,_ a black cardigan and jeans.

Catra puts her hand on Adora’s thigh, looking at her. There’s a glint in her eye, a sense of mischief, the kind that makes her want to put her hand over Catra’s, drag it up further but — but they haven’t done this before. They hadn’t really crossed these lines before. She tries not to burn a hole into Catra’s hand.

“So,” Catra breathes out, her voice suddenly raspy. Adora’s insides break out in chaos and maybe — maybe she’ll revel in the feeling. Maybe she’ll revel in how Catra always makes her feel alive, like flying close to the sun. “What do you want to do?”

**. . .**

They end up against the stall doors of the library bathrooms — to be fair, it was clean. It was also empty. Adora wasn’t planning anything, though. But there’s Catra all over her, the scent of her perfume like lilies and pink-stained skies. Adora is kissing her neck, smiling. There’s Catra’s hair falling to her shoulders, her hands gripping Catra’s hips so she wouldn’t fall.

“Are we,” Adora pants out to the expanse of the silent bathroom, save for their own breathing, “Are we really doing this here?” She leans her forehead to Catra’s, who’s looking at her like she’s the only one she could see. She hopes that is true in every sense of the word.

“You’re shaking.” Catra lets out a small chuckle, whispering, “Don’t you think we’re moving too fast?”

“I think…” Adora trails, “I think I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

“There’s no rules to relationships.” Catra presses a soft kiss to Adora’s jaw. “We could always do it our way.”

“Heh.” Adora gives Catra a cheeky grin. “Do it.”

“Don’t ruin it.” But Catra couldn’t hide it — she was already smiling like a fool. Fools, that’s what they are. Fools for each other.

Adora kisses Catra again, like she has to, like she couldn’t talk without it. “Do you—” Adora muffles a gasp when Catra rocks her hips with hers. “Do you want to go home?”

There’s something in her words that makes Catra’s eyes light up. “Home, I like that.” Catra’s the one that kisses her again. They can’t get enough of each other. “Let’s go home.”

**. . .**

It was clumsy and awkward — Adora let her hands wander all over Catra’s body, exploring and fumbling and touching. She’s never done this before. It seems like her senses heighten; like the feeling of the bedsheets under them, the feeling of Catra’s hands, the sounds she makes, her lips on hers, chests heaving.

 _I think you should take your pants off,_ Catra whispers in her ear, fingers playing with her belt loops. Adora watches her unbutton her jeans, slowly sliding down her zipper, hands gripping the sheets as Catra looks up at her, lips like velvet and eyes like the moon. _I’ve never done this before either,_ Catra reassures her before she kisses her again.

There’s blood rushing through her veins, feeling every touch and every gasp, shivers racing down her spine whenever Catra touches her where she wants to be touched.

 _I’ll do anything you want,_ Adora murmurs against Catra’s skin when she’s on top of her — hands gripping her hips, hoping to leave bruises, hoping to kiss every inch of her skin, from the deep lines of her collarbones to the skin behind her ears to the slope of her shoulders to all of it, no matter how long it takes.

And when they’re done, it feels natural. Adora would give Catra anything she’d desire, like poignant honeymoons and flying to the constellations and treasures buried deep in the soil of the earth.

She’s laying on top of Catra, Catra’s arms around her neck. Adora untangles Catra’s hands and holds it between hers, bringing her lips to her knuckles, staring at Catra when she does it.

“You make it so easy,” Adora says when silence falls over them like a blanket.

“What?” Catra asks, turning her head to the side.

“To make art.” Adora stares at the ceiling, intertwining her hand with Catra’s. “I’ve never been so inspired before.” She turns her head to look at Catra. “I hear music when I’m with you. You make lo— I mean, making art so easy,” she stumbles over her words, but Catra knows. Catra gives her an after-midnight smile, the kind only she will ever see.

“What do we do now?” Catra whispers. Something is lingering in the air around them, full of unsaid words that were already felt. _I love you, I love you_ — Adora almost says.

Adora lets go of their hands, turning her body to the side to face Catra, putting her hands under her head. “I don’t know. Do you want to order pizza?”

Catra lets out a laugh; Adora would love to hear it again and again. It sounds better than music. “At one in the morning?”

“I’m sure there are some shops that are still open,” Adora says, getting her phone. “Put on a movie or something. I’ll call.”

That’s how they end up watching a god-awful Christmas movie until the morning, sheets around their waists and the light of the screen on their faces.

This is how Adora knows. This is how she knows she loves her.)

**: : :**

“Oh,” Adora says, opening the door to the shared suite between her, Glimmer, and Bow. It wasn’t that they couldn’t afford another one — after all these years, they just loved each other’s company. “Am I interrupting something?”

Bow and Glimmer are in their suite’s cave pool, a Top 100 playlist playing in Glimmer’s phone speaker, the echoes of the conversation filling the suite. They were close for comfort, and Adora can’t help but feel excitement for both of her friends.

“No, it’s fine,” Glimmer says, putting minimal distance away from Bow. “How was the shoot?”

“Oh my god,” Adora mutters, bringing a chair next to the pool and sitting down on it. “It was weird? I don’t even know.”

“I bet you’re feeling the tension between the two of you right now.”

Adora widens her eyes. “Woah, okay. Tension?”

Glimmer looks at her pointedly. “The tension,” she starts, moving her hands together in a somewhat inappropriate way. “You know. The will they or won’t they, the watch Adult Swim at midnight when your parents are asleep and—”

“Glimmer, what were you _watching_?” Bow asks, mouth hanging open.

“How do you think I learned about it? Watching Pokémon?” Glimmer quirks an eyebrow at Bow.

“Okay, guys. We are so getting off-track,” Adora says. “Anyway, the shoot was good. The photos turned out really well.”

“Yeah, and we’ll be going somewhere else _again_ to film the music video. Next week. And the week after that, we’ll begin our international tour while recording our new album.” Bow looks at Glimmer, who continues. “God, Adora. Won’t you be exhausted?”

“As much as I hate to say it, you need to take a break,” Bow points out, “I can see the bags under your eyes from here.”

“I have to do this,” Adora says. “Besides, this is promo work. We’ll still be doing some version of this if we didn’t do the photoshoot, like a radio tour or something.”

“Yeah, but what we’re saying is that,” Glimmer starts, “I think you need to take it easy. Sleep. Rest. Stop bouncing your leg.” Adora stills her left leg. “You’re overwhelming yourself. Someday, your body is going to give up on you.”

“I know you guys are worried about me, but I’m feeling good. Pretty good, actually.” Adora gives them a thumbs up.

Bow groans. “Don’t tell me you’re going to the gym again.”

“Oh, whoops!” Adora exclaims, laughing nervously. “I think— I think someone’s calling me. Did you hear that too?”

“Your phone is literally powered off, Adora.”

“Really?” Adora gasps, eyes widening in an attempt to look realistic. She was never a good actor. “I didn’t know that. I’m _such_ an idiot.” She puts her palm to her forehead. “Well,” she says, “I have to go. I need to… vote.”

“In Greece?” Glimmer asks. “You’re not even a citizen.”

“Exactly,” Adora whispers. “I need to fix my papers. The polling stations are somewhere around the corner. Yeah. Bye.” She closes the door in a hurry, leaving Bow and Glimmer alone.

They share a look, sighing. “We need to make the girl rest.”

“Agreed.”

**. . .**

“Ah, fuck,” Adora mutters to herself as she comes up from her squat. Breathing out, feeling her muscles burn, she places the barbell back to the squat rack. Closing her eyes and leaning against it, she removes her lifting belt.

“Wow.” A voice comes from behind her and Adora almost yelps in surprise.

“Oh my god, you scared me.” Adora puts her hand to her chest.

Catra doesn’t reply; she moves closer and checks the weights. “This is twice my bodyweight. That’s so…”

“Impressive?” Adora wiggles her eyebrows, pride expanding in her chest.

“Kind of hot, actually,” Catra says, touching Adora’s bicep. “Fuck, what have you been eating? It’s not possible — your veins are literally popping out through the shirt. How does that even happen?”

Adora chuckles. It’s not a normal occurrence — there’s no annoyance that spreads over her, people complimenting to get on her good side, to expose her someday when she lets them in. With Catra, she couldn’t find that familiar feeling. “Thanks for the ego boost. Why are you here, though?”

“Aren’t we in the same hotel?”

“No,” Adora says, “I mean at the gym. I thought I’d be the only person here.”

“I know.” Catra, through small motions, looks like she’s sinking into herself. “I mean… I thought you’d be. Didn’t you say you want to be friends?”

There’s happiness there, feeling like she’s floating above the skies, growing wings behind her back, unknowingly bumping into things. “I do. I’m actually done now. Do you want to get dinner? I’m hungry.”

“Of course you’d be hungry,” Catra says, acting like she’s annoyed, but there’s a hint of fondness to it. “It’s like, five in the afternoon.”

“Well.” Adora smiles bashfully. “I can always get a snack somewhere. But,” she says, “I heard the sunset here looks amazing. Do you want to, uh,” she stammers, “I don’t know. Watch it with me?”

**. . .**

**CATRADORA UPDATES** @CatradoraNews · 3m  
BREAKING! I REPEAT BREAKING NEWS! ADORA AND CATRA SPOTTED IN DIFFERENT LOCATIONS: SANTORINI, PORTLAND, LONDON, AND NEW YORK. IS IT FOR A PROJECT?

 **hungies for catra** @fauxdoras · 3m  
 _Replying to_ @CatradoraNews  
OMG MY OATMEAL EXPLODED IN THE MICROWAVE... ARE YOU SHITTING ME

 **FREE CATRADORA** @catrahomes · 3m  
 _Replying to_ @CatradoraNews  
WHYD THEY DO THIS UNPROVOKED.... MAAM IM SHAKING ajdhaJDHSJWJEBW+"!"!$;":2+#(

**. . .**

The concept of the music video is simple; there would be different scenarios in different universes. In every single one of them, Adora would always meet Catra. _I was made for you,_ the lyrics say. It rings it true.

There’s one in particular that Adora likes — she likes all of them, actually — but this one, where she owns a bookstore and Catra was this big movie star, bumping shoulders with her on the corner of the street, spilling coffee on her shirt and walking into her life like that.

There’s another one where Catra stumbles on the docks of a harbor, looking for something, maybe someone, and Adora’s there, feet dangling above the water. She turns around to the sound and sees her — another one, where Catra is an artist in a museum displaying her paintings, mysterious and aloof, Adora an interviewer, asking her out for breakfast the next day.

They fall in love, over and over again. No matter which universe, they would always find each other. In different circumstances and in different lives, all the natural disasters that come by, all the sandstorms and tsunami waves and earthquakes. They’re the living proof of soulmates.

(Of course — in that video concept only, Adora thinks.)

Although she can’t ignore her heart racing whenever Catra gets too close, or whenever Glimmer shoots her a smirk when she blushes, or when Bow winks at her when she misses a cue or forgets what she’s supposed to do or when she makes an excuse to leave the room, flustered.

Maybe it’s the universe telling her something.

Maybe she will never really get over Catra.

**: : :**

(“What are you doing?”

Adora is frozen at the door, her hand on the doorknob. She’s standing still, watching Catra sit in front of her keyboard.

Catra stands up. “Hey, Adora. Why are you here so soon?”

“The restaurant closed early.” Adora walks over to Catra, giving her a chaste kiss in greeting. Smiling to the kiss, she breaks it and sits down next to her. “What are you doing?”

“I wanted to surprise you.” Adora hasn’t seen Catra blush like this. She’s also avoiding Adora’s eyes. “I was learning your song. You had a video of you playing and,” she drops her voice to a whisper, “I thought I could play it too. Sometime later, I realized I was probably better off singing it without playing, but I already started.”

There’s something at the tip of Adora’s tongue — the familiar three words, eight letters — but she bites her tongue. Instead, she says, “Oh yeah? I bet it sounds good.”

“Fine.” Catra rolls her eyes, smiling. “Don’t make fun of me, okay?”

 _I never would,_ Adora thinks. _Never when it comes to you._

Catra starts playing the first notes. It’s true — it wasn’t perfect. Her hands were slower and the timing was off. Her inexperienced hands looked like it was only exploring the keys, reminding Adora when she was younger and played piano for the first time. It was clumsy, the wrong notes being accidentally played or hit. It wasn’t the greatest rendition of the song.

But it was for Adora. It was perfect because it was Catra. It was Catra, and everything she will do will always be beautiful to Adora.

 _And I was made for you,_ Catra sings. It sounds like everything Adora wishes for. When she finishes the song, she looks at Adora, nervous and unsure for the first time. Adora is overcome with a sense of pride and—

“I love you.” She couldn’t help herself. “I love you so much.”

Catra’s eyes widen and Adora could almost hear it. _It’s too soon_ or _it’s too fast_ , but she didn’t care about it.

When Catra finally speaks, it’s not the words she expects. “Why do you love me?”

Adora swallows. She decides to be honest. There was no magic trick underneath her words, no illusions and no trap doors. “I love you because you’re you.” She looks at Catra, wanting her to understand. “I love everything about you. I love you because you make me so happy,” she whispers. There’s another layer to her words, the ones she doesn’t want to say yet. _I would have said this the day we met, I would have said this the day you watched me from the curtains._

Adora smiles. “It’s fine if you’re not ready to say it yet. I never want to be the one that pressures you, okay? I just wanted you to know.”

Catra kisses her senseless in response.

They stay awake until the sunrise.)

**: : :**

She’s in Tokyo. It’s the first stop of their international tour. The stadium is filled to the brim, and if Adora looks out, she can see thousands of fans holding banners, screaming and crying before the show even started. They’re teasing their fans, the stagehands using the smoke machines and changing the colors of the screen — never fails to elicit a reaction from them — and Adora’s sitting inside the backstage area.

“Adora, you okay?” Bow asks, forehead knotting.

“I’m fine. I’m just… you were right. I’ve been so tired lately.” Adora closes her eyes, unable to rest because of the upcoming show, the adrenaline flowing in her veins, the bustling hallways of the stadium, the fans waiting for them.

“Hey, look at me.” Bow crouches to her eye level. “It’s not ideal, but we can always call off the show. The fans will understand. Everyone will. Your health is more important than the show.”

“I know my limits — I know I can still do this. The show must go on,” Adora says, opening her eyes. “I just need to sleep in early tonight.”

“That’s good.” Bow squeezes Adora’s shoulder. “It hurts me, Glimmer too, to see you hurting yourself like this. We love you, Adora.” Bow offers her a smile, gentle. “We’ll always look after you. You need to stop pushing yourself like this.”

“I love you too, Bow.” Adora pulls Bow and hugs him tight, Bow hugging her back. “Thank you.” She releases the hug and looks at Bow. “Ready for tonight?”

**: : :**

(There’s smoke billowing out from behind them; the spotlight feels hot and heavy on Catra. She’s in her costume — torn and ragged and stitched with different fabrics. She’s singing as high as she can, in harmony with the rest of the cast. The orchestra is playing the climax of the piece, the drums rolling and the trumpets blowing, the conductor full of energy on the stage.

The lights go out.

The audience is on their feet immediately. The entire stage lights up again. They bow down, practiced and steady. Catra could see Adora in her place from the orchestra pit, smiling at her with pride in her eyes. Catra smiles back as she goes backstage when the curtains draw.

When the audience clears out, the rest of the main cast along with Catra go back to the front stage, Adora on her side. There’s electricity mixed with happiness in her chest, Adora’s presence near her. There’s a promise in her hold — full of places and heights they’ll be reaching after the sun comes down.

“Hold that pose!” The photographer says — Catra couldn’t be bothered to learn their name — and Adora is holding her from behind, her head on Catra’s shoulder. It’s showing their relationship on camera, permanent on film. Catra feels invincible.

The camera flashes and Adora presses a soft kiss to her cheek. “You did such a good job earlier. You look like you belong on the stage. So perfect,” Adora whispers into her ear.

“Contain yourself.” Catra slaps Adora’s arm. “We’re in public.” Adora nuzzles into Catra’s neck, tickling her with the strands of her hair, tickling Catra. “Stop it, you weirdo, or else—”

“Catra.” There’s a voice that sends shivers up her spine — _definitely_ not in a good way — and she looks up to see Shadow Weaver. “Meet me in the office before you leave. I have something to discuss with you.” It’s a mood killer, and she leaves immediately after.

Adora presses a kiss to her hair. Catra looks up at her encouraging smile. “You’ll be fine.”

Catra hopes so.)

**: : :**

“I’d just like to say Tokyo,” Adora speaks to her microphone after they finish singing one of their more recent songs on their latest album, _Failsafe_ , confetti littered all over the floor of the stage. Her face is projected on the massive screens. “I am loving this. You all sound so beautiful singing along to our songs.” There are screams in response. “I’m sure you know our next song, it’s our newest. It’s called Heart.” The lights around them turn soft and yellow, a stagehand giving Adora a guitar.

The concert was not going well. Adora was completely exhausted after the first hour of the show, and there are two hours left. It showed in almost every way. Bow and Glimmer have been shooting her pointed looks — one where she played the wrong chords, missed an opening cue, and nearly messed up one of her piano solos. She’s sure the fans have noticed.

The fans use the flashlights on their phone as she plays the opening chords. They already know every word, the whole stadium singing along with the three of them. It’s exhilarating when people sing her own songs back to her. From the first time — Catra, Catra always — and to the next time, on a small venue, and every time after that.

Once they finish the song, her head is pounding. The strumming pattern is only a mindless habit. When she stands up, wobbling, she whispers to Bow and Glimmer she’ll be taking a bathroom break. Walking backstage, she can hear the faint sound of Bow’s voice asking, “Are y’all having a good time?” and a collective scream from the audience, as always.

Her eyes are almost drooping, dots lining at the edge of her vision. She probably needs water. Rounding the corner to the women’s bathrooms, she bumps into—

“Hey, Adora.”

Catra.

“I wanted to surprise you.” Catra waves her hands around. “Well, my publicist did. It’s the same sentiment, though.” Her words are passing through Adora’s ears. “Wait. You don’t look well. Are you okay?”

She’s been thinking about Catra. She wonders if there is ever a right time to say what she wants to say.

“I was thinking about you,” Adora murmurs. Her thoughts are unfiltered from pure exhaustion. “I was thinking about you.” She repeats.

“Uh, okay, cool. But tell me,” Catra says, putting her hands on Adora’s shoulders, shaking it. “Are you okay?”

“Okay? You’re okay,” Adora whispers. “I was thinking… I was thinking that I’ll probably never get over you.”

Catra’s face is the last thing she sees before she passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALRIGHT that was the fifth chapter! i know i said this would be a few days late but hey, it's only a day late!
> 
> i love this chapter a lot, this was planned from the beginning of the story and it feels good to see it written down like this, not just bullet points in an outline. it is actually the longest chapter in the story currently, ending at around 8.6K words. i'm pretty happy about that - it wasn't even planned. it just wrote itself lmfao.
> 
> anyway,, i hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! thank you to my betas imsodon3 and jinnie again, i love you guys. thank you as well to the kudos and comments!! i hope you guys know that i'm grateful for every single one of them. vv grateful. i'd love to know what you guys thought of this chapter!


	6. the best thing for you would be me

She seems to be weaving in and out of reality. There are voices around her. She feels exhausted. She tries to listen.

“What the hell were you doing with her?”

“Nothing! She never told us anything.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be her best friends — doing things like, you know, look after her? Isn’t she supposed to tell you everything?”

“We’re not her babysitters. She’s not a child. She can look after herself.” A pause. “Who are _you_ to even assume—”

“Stop, guys—”

“I think I have the right. You, however, need to stop raising your voice at me—”

“Oh, but you can?”

“Guys!” A male voice. “The two of you need to stop. I’m serious.”

“Stop? Stop what? Did you even try to stop Adora before she—”

“No. You don’t get to tell us what to do. Who are you? Her girlfriend?”

“So what if I was?”

A mocking laugh. “You’re such a liar. I can see it on your face, you absolute—”

“Enough, Glimmer. We don’t need more stress piling on to what we already have.”

“Why should I? She thinks she can barge in and—”

“Glimmer?” Adora asks, opening her eyes.

Hospital.

She’s in a hospital, laying on a white bed. There are white curtains. White walls. White floors. The room is cold. She’s still tired.

“Adora!” Glimmer rushes over to her side, putting her hand over Adora’s. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ll get a nurse!” Bow exclaims, standing from his chair and exiting the room.

“I feel exhausted. What happened?” Adora attempts to sit up, but her body protests. There’s a hand on her shoulder, and a glass of water is offered to her. She drinks it all. She lays down.

“You fainted backstage. You need to rest.” Without her voice, Adora would still recognize that touch anywhere. The knowledge settles deep in her bones oddly.

“Catra,” she breathes out, “What— why are you here?”

“Don’t sound too happy to see me.” Catra smiles at her. “I was supposed to surprise you, do some PR, whatever. I guess some things just don’t want to happen, huh?”

“Publicity?” Adora repeats, her brain struggling to catch up with everything happening around her.

“Publicity, you know,” Catra starts, “You, me, fans go batshit insane—”

“Stop messing with her, Catra.” Adora could feel Glimmer’s glare next to her.

“Oh, but I’m totally the reason why she’s here right now.”

“Are we really doing this here?” Glimmer asks, looking like she wants to tear Catra’s hair out. “You’re so insufferable—”

“Wait.” Adora interrupts Glimmer before she could start. “What happened to the rest of the show?”

“We canceled it,” Glimmer says, holding her hand tight. Adora could see Catra glancing at the gesture. Adora doesn’t know what to make of it. “Bow and I couldn’t go on without you. It’s not the same.”

“No!” Adora says, forcing her body to sit up. She does, but Catra pushes her down. “Why? You— you could’ve woken me up—”

“Adora, are you even listening to yourself? Do you even hear what you’re saying?”

“Catra,” Adora says, her head lolling to the side. Her head pounds. “Catra, why did you… why did you stay?”

Catra opens her mouth to reply, but— but there’s something wrong. Forcing herself to stay awake, she watches Catra’s face turn to different emotions.

“Adora.” Glimmer gently grabs Adora’s shoulders. “You don’t look too well, you should—”

She hears the door open.

She passes out again.

**: : :**

(“Oh, Catra,” Shadow Weaver says, “I’ll be sending you back to Miami if you keep rejecting any opportunity that comes your way.” She finds a folder from her stack on the table, placing it in front of her. “Not that I’m opposed to that.”

Catra grits her teeth. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Shadow Weaver laughs, and it sounds as haunting as it should. Catra wishes to never hear it again. “You know I could.”

“Fine.” Catra looks away, hugging her waist. This decision has slowly been simmering to the surface, has been on her mind for weeks now. “I want you to send it to Hordak.”

Shadow Weaver raises an eyebrow. “This? To Hordak?” She opens the folder. “It’s not good enough.” She points to one of the photos in her portfolio. It looks new and amateurish — but it was the only professional photoshoot Catra ever had. “Look at the composition. There are shadows that shouldn’t be there. Your outfit—”

“Obviously,” Catra says, humiliated, “I can’t afford high-end clothing.”

“Exactly. And you want to send it to Hordak?” Shadow Weaver shakes her head, closing the folder. She pushes it to Catra. “You’re wasting everyone’s time with this. Do something that’s actually worth talking about.”

“No!” Catra stands up, her chair pushing back from the force of her action. “I— I need this! This opportunity. You _have_ to give this to him. You’re the only one who can.”

“I said I won’t.” Shadow Weaver stands up as well, hovering over Catra. Catra takes a step back. “What part of that do you not understand? Are you busy sleeping around—”

“That is none of your business!” Catra exclaims, red spreading to her cheeks. “You have— you have no right to talk about my personal life. Don’t,” she says, pausing from taking a deep breath, “ever talk about me like that. But that’s fine.” Catra takes the folder, clutching it to her chest. “I’ll do it myself if I have to.”

She walks out of the office, a tear trailing down from her eye.)

**: : :**

“Then she said, what are these? And I said, dolls! I made dolls about us and she was like, Scorpia, these are just twigs you tied together with a string and put our pictures on it.”

A gasp. “Oh my god, you must feel so devastated.”

“I should?”

“You should?”

“What’s happening?” Adora asks, her throat feeling incredibly dry. Forcing her eyes to open, she’s hit with the image of a white ceiling.

“Oh, Adora!” A scraping of a chair, grating in Adora’s ears. “Catra is going to be so happy you’re awake!” A pause. “Again. But that doesn’t matter! I’ll go get her now! Just wait.”

“But she can’t move,” another voice says, and Adora could distinctly recognize it.

“That’s perfect!” A slam of the door.

“How are you feeling?” The voice asks. There’s a hand on her arm. Adora forces her head to turn to her side. Her eyes widen.

“Perfuma,” she whispers, “I… what are you doing here?”

"How are you feeling?" The voice sounds calm. There warmth in her arm, a hand. Adora forces her head to turn to her side, and her eyes widen. “Do you want some water?”

“Yeah.” Perfuma gives her another glass. She drinks it all again.

“We all heard about what happened,” Perfuma says, “I came as soon as I could. I brought you your favorite flowers.” She points to the windowsill, and Adora could see a bouquet of white lilies. Adora smiles at the sight.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Your friend has been here for some time. She’s been so worried about you.” Perfuma strokes her arm back and forth soothingly, and Adora watches the motions, eyes following.

“Friend?”

The door opens, revealing Catra.

Perfuma stands up. “I think I’ll be going. You seem to be in good company.” She looks at Catra, then to her friend Scorpia. She recognizes her from their trip to Greece.

“Scorpia, do you want to come with me to the cafeteria?” Perfuma asks, Scorpia looking confused but going anyway. The door closes and it’s just them again.

(It’s kind of like being on the second floor of a club, neon lights shining on them and the taste of alcohol in their mouths; in the models’ general dressing room; in a restaurant in Italy; on red carpets; on the stairways of Santorini; in the stadiums in Tokyo.

All the places they stumbled upon together.

It would always end up like this.)

“Why are you here?” Adora asks. Inside her, there’s something— something that threatens to rip out of her insides.

Catra looks down on the white tiles of the floor. There’s the sound of monitors, the sounds of a hospital. There’s no comfort here; no place to feel like home in the four corners of a hospital.

“I… I thought you’d appreciate the company.” Catra looks at her. “Aren’t we friends?”

“Friends,” Adora repeats, “Of course we’re friends.”

Catra’s eyes soften. It kind of like how fireflies burn bright in the woods, the endless drone of bumblebees, the crashing sounds of the waves falling on the shore. Catra sits beside her. She reaches out a hand, cups Adora’s face. Adora closes her eyes briefly to the touch, leaning into it. She opens it and looks into Catra’s eyes.

“I— I didn’t know what to do. Back then, backstage. When I came up to you.” Catra’s hand leaves her face, and Adora is struck with an immediate longing. “You just,” she breathes out, “passed out in front of me. Your eyes were drooping, and you looked so tired. I thought there was something wrong… I—”

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m okay now.” Adora brings up her hand to hold Catra’s. Adora rubs her thumb over the back of Catra’s hand. “It wasn’t your fault. I was dumb.”

“Clearly.” Catra shakes her head at Adora. “Dehydration? Really?”

“Was that the cause?” Adora asks, chuckling. It wasn’t as bad as she thought.

“It’s not funny,” Catra says, “everyone was so worried about you, passing out like that.” Her voice drops to a murmur. “I was so worried about you.”

“Catra,” Adora whispers, “I’m sorry. I’ll take better care of myself, I promise.” There’s something she wants to do. She knows she’ll cross a line. If there will be a mountain to hike or a river to cross later on, right now, she doesn’t care about what is awaiting her on the other side. She brings up their hands and kisses it, closing her eyes.

Catra is watching her hands, unmoving. Adora’s sure she can feel her heartbeat in her ears.

“Adora! We heard you were awake!” Bow exclaims, walking into the room.

“I’m not sure what you wanted for lunch but— oh.” Glimmer stops when she sees the two of them.

She doesn’t regret it.

**: : :**

(“Hey, Adora. What’s got you in a rush?” Catra asks, lounging on the couch. She’s watching Adora move around the room, hopping on one foot as she tries to wear her cheap leather boots.

“Work. I have to go,” Adora says, putting on an old jacket hanging on the coat rack. She walks to Catra, kissing her on the forehead. “I’ll be back before dinner.” Adora stops before she closes the door. “I love you.”

Catra smiles back.

The door closes.

Adora doesn’t see that the smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

**. . .**

“Catra. Are you mad at me?” Adora’s on the left side of their bed, Catra’s back facing her. “I’m so sorry. I was so, so busy. I’ll make it up to you, I swear. It’s just— it’s just that things have been so—”

“Busy, I know. Save me the speech,” Catra mutters. Her voice sounds like she’s been crying for some time.

“Catra, I—”

“Don’t.”

“I’m sorry.” Adora looks away, eyes glazing over the crooked picture frames hanging around their small bedroom. “I messed up. I was only thinking about myself,” she says, jaw locking. “If you’d let me, please—”

“You missed our _first_ anniversary,” Catra says, and the emotion in her voice couldn’t be hidden if she tried. There are some things that were meant to hurt. Maybe this is one of those things.

“I don’t have an excuse. I— I hurt you. I was dumb, putting work first before you.” Adora touches Catra’s shoulder, rubbing her thumb on her skin. “Please,” she breathes out, “I don’t want to fight.”

Catra doesn’t answer. Adora sighs, lays down next to her. Adora knows Catra could feel the way the bed dips, knows that Catra could feel her presence.

Adora knows Catra is hurt. She saw the dinner inside the refrigerator. It was charcuterie and beef wellington and wine — it was something she knows Catra had saved up for. She saw the new CD wrapped up beside the record player. She saw the letter thrown in the trash can.

It said _I love you too_.

Adora falls into a dreamless sleep that night.)

**: : :**

“You guys are exes? Like, for real?”

Catra throws her hands up. “It’s not as if anyone asked.”

“Wait.” Bow looks at them, knotting his forehead. “So are you two together again?”

“No.” Catra lets go of their hands and stands up from the bed. “We’re not.”

A flash of hurt comes, short and fast. It’s a tiny sting of pain, like sharp needle piercing skin. In some lifetime, maybe Catra would have said yes.

(Maybe it was all her mistakes that led them to end up like this.

Maybe it was always supposed to end up like this — chasing, chasing, chasing. Always trying to fix the mess she left behind.

Maybe Adora would spend the rest of her life trying to erase the parts Catra had molded her in.)

Glimmer looks at Adora, scrutinizing her face. There must be something laid out for Glimmer to see, years of being with each other, learning each other’s facial cues and expressions. Adora sometimes wishes she didn’t wear her heart on her sleeve.

Glimmer looks like she understands. She nods. “Anyone want lunch?”

**: : :**

(“Catra,” Adora calls out once she opens the door to their apartment.

She’s alone. The lights are turned off. Adora fights off her scream of frustration. Gritting her teeth, she walks on the familiar floors, hearing the click of her shoes on the tiles. When she sits on the couch, she puts her hands to her head. Catra still isn’t speaking to her, won’t listen to her.

She feels the couch dip. Opening her eyes, she looks at her side.

Catra.

She’s not looking at Adora. She’s looking at the television. Adora’s eyes travel downward, and she sees the tray Catra is currently holding.

Chocolate chip cookies.

“I’m sorry,” Catra says, “I’m sorry for ignoring you.”

“No,” Adora breathes out. She wants to reach out to Catra, to feel her skin. “ _I’m_ sorry. I’m sorry I missed our anniversary. I wish I could turn back time.”

Catra looks at her. “I’ll be honest,” she says, “I’m still hurt from that. But…” Catra swallows, a lump in her throat. “We’ll be alright, won’t we?”

Adora offers her a small smile. “We will.”

Catra smiles back. She pushes the tray of cookies to Adora. “Eat. You must be hungry after a long shift.”

“Is this dinner?” Adora asks teasingly, grabbing a cookie and eating. It was so much better than the first time. “This is so good, Catra. You’re so good.”

Catra chuckles, shaking her head. “Of course not, I ordered us pad thai.”

When Adora watches Catra walk to the kitchen to grab their food, she’s still drowning in guilt. She knows it’s dumb — she was already forgiven. But it drowns her, taking the oxygen from her body, chemicals coursing through her system.

When Catra comes back, unbeknownst to her inner turmoil, she kisses her instead.

She hopes they’ll be alright.)

**: : :**

“Okay, let me just,” Bow starts. They’re sitting inside a small restaurant in Tokyo, a few blocks away from the hospital. “Catra had the original demo all along?”

“Well, yeah,” Adora says, looking next to her. Before they went, they ran into Scorpia and Perfuma at the cafeteria, who declined their invitation. With Catra sitting next to her, Adora finds that maybe she doesn’t mind. “I didn’t know you kept it.”

“I always appreciate the gifts my fans give me.” Catra shrugs, drinking from her bowl of miso soup.

Adora laughs, bumping her shoulder with Catra’s. “Asshole.”

“Oh, how vulgar.”

Bow and Glimmer are watching them with their eyes glinting. Adora groans internally. She’s about to have a major teasing later.

“You probably had a heart attack when you first saw her on the runway,” Glimmer says. _Oh god, it already begun,_ Adora thinks. She shoots Glimmer a light-hearted glare, and Glimmer smiles innocently back at her.

Catra hums. “She did come up to me backstage and asked me out for lunch.” Catra couldn’t hide the smile from her lips, knowing Adora is currently a blushing mess — all red and eyes wandering. Catra can’t get enough of it.

“Stop exposing me,” Adora says. Catra laughs in response. “You never did return my beret.”

Catra’s eyes widen. “I kind of forgot where I put it?” Bow hides his laugh with a cough, while Catra glares at him.

“I feel like everything almost makes sense now,” Glimmer comments, “like the chemistry between the two of you. No wonder our fans burst a vein when it comes to the two of you.”

“Speaking of fans,” Bow says, taking out his phone. “I think you should make a statement on your account about what happened. The band account already released one, but I’m sure our fans would love to hear from you.”

“Oh.” She opens her phone and looks at Twitter, seeing her notifications blow up. “I… I don’t know what to say, really.”

“That could wait.” Glimmer gives Adora a reassuring smile. “You should eat first. Putting work before yourself is what made things like this.”

“What happened to the concert after I passed out?” Adora asks, sneaking a glance at Catra. She’s dipping her dumpling into the soy sauce with her chopsticks, then dropping it, cursing under her breath.

“Everyone freaked out. Bow, Catra, and everyone else had to juggle calling the ambulance and making a statement for the fans. You know, everything that needs to happen in canceling a show,” Glimmer says.

Adora winces. “I’m sorry. I should have taken care of myself better.”

Catra nods in agreement. She moves the plate of sushi closer to Adora. “And that’s why you should keep eating instead of talking.”

“What happens to the other concerts? There’s another one tomorrow, right?”

“You can’t be serious.” Catra groans. “What part of being hospitalized and needing rest do you not understand?”

“Look, I’m fine, alright?” Adora puts her hands up. “I’m sure—”

“I agree with Catra.” Glimmer pauses. “Wow. That almost didn’t feel right.”

Bow takes a sip from his ice tea. “Adora, remember what we talked about before the show? The fans know. They understand.” He motions to a waitress hovering near their table. “Can we get the dessert menu?” He smiles at her. “Thank you so much.”

Adora looks away.

This conversation wasn’t over.

**: : :**

(“Lonnie,” Adora whispers. She’s on top of a small stage, her hands on a grand piano. She’s on her usual shift at the _Whispering Woods_ , a family-owned restaurant in New York. Razz, the owner, has a soft spot for Adora. “I think I just saw Angella Brightmoon.”

Lonnie, to her credit, doesn’t lose a beat. Her eyes widen, hands on the drumsticks tightening. “Are you kidding me?”

“I swear I’m not,” she says. As subtle as she can, she nods to the table she saw the esteemed manager. Angella Brightmoon, on _Time’s_ Most Influential People of the Year, here in the same room as her. Her hands start to slightly shake.

“Holy shit, I see her,” Lonnie says, “Kyle, you better step up on that tambourine.”

“It’s a triangle,” Kyle whispers back. Adora almost laughs at how stupid they look, whispering to each other during an improvisation set.

“Whatever.” Lonnie turns to Adora, increasing the tempo. “Why do you think she’s here?”

“To eat?” Kyle suggests, albeit unhelpfully.

“Not you, Kyle.” Lonnie rolls her eyes. “I don’t think anyone of her status is here to eat vegan pasta. Do you think…” she trails off, biting her lip.

Adora understands. “That’s probably wishful thinking.”

“It doesn’t hurt to hope.” Lonnie shrugs.

“Adora.” They’re about to switch keys when Octavia, one of the employees there, comes over and whispers into her ear. “Angella Brightmoon wants to talk to you after the performance. She says she has a proposition for you.”

**. . .**

“Adora, where are you?” Catra says to the phone speaker, her other hand on her hip. “You were supposed to pick me up like, thirty minutes ago. What happened? Have you been kidnapped?”

She’s walking down the familiar path that leads to her apartment building. Her shoulder bag weighs lighter than the burden of her emotions, all exhausted. The manila folder inside — containing her portfolio — feels like it could be swept away from her grasp at any minute.

She decides to call Lonnie.)

**: : :**

Adora and Catra find themselves in a café after Bow and Glimmer leave — a very hasty excuse of having some “alone time together” and then paying half of the bill and leaving. (It was obvious as day. Even Catra raised an eyebrow.)

“A cat café? Really?” Catra asks, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Hey! These are super expensive,” Adora says, “and it looks cute.”

They’re sitting on one of the couches, pillows surrounding them. Adora watches as one of the cats approach Catra.

“Aw, it likes you,” Adora comments as the cat nuzzles Catra’s leg, moving around it.

“And now there’s cat hair all over my jeans.”

“But it _likes_ you.” Adora smiles at the sight. “Go take a look at the name tag.”

Catra runs her hand over the soft silver fur. At an angle, it almost looks dark blue. She takes a peek at the tag. “Melog. Their name is Melog.”

“That’s a unique name.” Adora looks at Catra. She knows there’s something on Catra’s mind by the way she’s avoiding Adora’s stare. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.” Her answer is immediate. “You?”

“I’m thinking about what you’re thinking. You know you can tell me.”

Catra sighs, still not meeting Adora’s eyes. “It’s just… I think you’re being stubborn. And stupid.”

“What did I do?” Adora asks, eyes widening.

“I know you, Adora. You know that.” Catra takes a sip from her cappuccino ( _catpuccino_ , actually. Adora found it funny — Catra did not.) “I know you’re thinking about continuing the tour.”

“Uh,” Adora mutters, “Of course I do. I have to. It’s for the fans. They would want me to perform.”

“Yeah, it’s always about the fans.” Catra scoffs. “You’re killing yourself like this. You still look exhausted and— and you’re going to perform and travel nearly every day? That’s… bullshit.”

It’s Adora’s turn to scoff. “It’s not bullshit. It’s what the fans would want— what Angella would want! I can’t disappoint them.” Adora looks away, bringing her knees closer to her chest. “Like I already did,” she mutters.

“Honestly, Adora. Who gives a fuck about what they want? What do you want?” Catra asks. Her voice wavers at the end.

Adora finds her explanation die on her lips. “It— it doesn’t matter. What— why are you doing this?”

“God. I can’t do this again.” Catra stands up, putting down her cup. “I’m going. It was nice seeing you.” She starts to walk away, but Adora stands up as well and grabs her arm.

“Catra.” Adora can’t make a scene. They’re in public, always scrutinized, always seen. “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Home? We’re on the other side of the world!”

“Yeah, and?” Catra shakes off her arm. “I could buy a plane ticket right now. What,” Catra says, turning around, “are you going to stop me?”

Adora watches Catra leave the café.

**. . .**

It’s cold in Tokyo. Catra wishes she brought a jacket. The city moves around her, always bustling, never paying attention to her. It reminds her of New York somehow. She’s raising her hand, about to hail a taxi when she hears footsteps behind her.

“Catra,” Adora says, grabbing Catra and forcing her to look at her. “What is your problem? What are you doing? Everything is fine one second and the next is not! Why are you being like this? What do you want me to say?”

Catra feels a surge of anger at Adora’s losing temper. “It’s not about what I want you to say. I don’t want to watch someone overwork themselves to death.” She looks away. “You’re not even listening to what Bow and Glimmer have to say! God, I’m so stupid. I thought things would be different this time.”

“Different?” Adora asks. “Why? What— what did you think would change? I’m still the same person I used to be.”

“And that’s the point!” Catra shouts, hands balling up into fists. “You’re— fuck. I don’t know. I _don’t_ know. You’re always putting others before yourself — people who will never know you like we do!”

“And what’s so wrong about that? How,” Adora’s voice trembles, “how is that so wrong?”

“What about the people who care about you?”

There was the opening. Adora’s head is foggy with anger. She wonders if she’ll say the right words. She wonders if she’ll regret it later. “Why? Do you?”

Catra laughs, throwing her head back. “Do you want me to answer that? Tell me.”

“Catra—”

“I think you know the answer, Adora.”

It feels like falling.

It feels like drowning.

Maybe they have been for a while.

“I don’t think there was even a time when I didn’t.”

Adora takes a step back. Maybe there were questions with answers she wasn’t ready for. _How long has she wanted to hear those words again?_

“Catra,” she says, “Catra, I—”

“Is that what you want to hear me say? I _do_ care about you. Why do you think I’m still here? Why do you think I stayed? Don’t you get it?” Catra takes a deep breath, then turns around. “I have to go.”

“Catra— no!” Adora reaches out for Catra, but Catra opens the door of the taxi by the sidewalk and closes it. “Catra!” She pounds on the window, but Catra doesn’t look at her, doesn’t open the door. The car starts to move, and Adora tries her best to catch up.

She doesn’t.

**: : :**

(If anyone had told Adora what destruction looks like before — she was sure it wasn’t like this.

No one told her that destruction is illuminated in candlelight, shadows dancing around their apartment. She didn’t know it sounds like silverware against the plates, looks like a vase holding a bouquet of white lilies on the small table. If Adora looks behind Catra, she’ll see a picture of them next to the record player; the one from the day of their play.

Maybe that’s when it all started.

“This is nice,” Adora comments. She takes a sip of the red wine, sloshing the liquid around the glass. It burns the back of her throat.

“It is,” Catra says, looking down at her plate. There’s a tension in the room that was never there before. Perhaps it was. Adora doesn’t know what to do with it.

“How was your day?” Adora makes conversation, hoping Catra would look up at her at least once. She doesn’t. Adora tries again. “Catra?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you signed a contract with Brightmoon Records?” If Adora would look, she’d see Catra’s hands balled up into fists, gripping the knife and fork tightly. She’d see how they tremble when she puts it down. She’d see what Catra doesn’t want to say. “You should…” Catra shuts her eyes. “God. You should have _fucking_ told me.”

Adora stills her motions. “How— how did you know about that?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It… it was for the best, Catra.”

“The best? Was I not enough for you?” Catra asks, voice cracking. “Is that it?”

Adora scrunches her face. Fire is burning in her lungs. “You know that’s not true—”

“Then why?” Catra’s chest is heaving, every breath that escapes her lungs hurts. “You should have told me. It’s unfair. It’s unfair that you’ll leave me like this.”

“Come with me, then.” Adora stops slicing the roast beef. “We can have a home there too,” her voice drops to a whisper, “it doesn’t have to be like this.”

“To Los Angeles,” Catra says, looking at Adora with a disbelieving stare. “You want me to come with you.”

“Why not?” Adora shrugs, unable to look at Catra. “We could— we could be happy there. Make memories in new places. Meet new people.” She knots her forehead. “I… I thought you hated New York.”

Catra almost laughs mockingly. “My entire life _is_ built around New York, Adora. Has it ever crossed your mind,” Catra says, slamming her fork down on the mashed potatoes, “that people don’t just give up their lives to watch someone else achieve their dreams? I have dreams too,” she says, pointing at herself.

“Well, you— you could do that there too,” Adora says. She’s still not looking at Catra. “I don’t know why it should matter.”

“It matters because you’re asking me to give up my life.” Catra sets her utensils down. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did I have to learn it from Lonnie, god forbid anyone else?”

“I’m sorry you had to hear it from her.” Adora swallows, a lump in her throat.

Catra couldn’t help herself; she laughs. Laughs in the absurdity of it all. “ _That_ is what you’re sorry for?”

“I am not going to apologize for doing what is the best for me,” Adora says, gripping the fork so tightly it may break. Maybe something else will. “This… this is everything I have been working for. Why can’t you be happy for me?”

Catra looks away. “I do want you to be happy. I’m sorry that I couldn’t make you happy enough to stay.”

Adora narrows her eyes. She’s feeling a dreaded sense of guilt — spiraling out of control. “We— we can always see each other. It doesn’t have to be this way, Catra.”

“We don’t have the money.” Catra makes a motion with her hands. “We don’t have the time. What,” she mutters, “do you think I’ll drop everything in a second to see you?”

“I _would_. I would do anything for you.”

“Would anything include leaving me alone without telling me?”

“Why— why are you doing this?” Adora leans back on her chair, hands fiddling with the tablecloth. There’s the theory of fear. Adora thinks this is what they study about. “Why are you getting so mad about this?”

“What do you mean I’m getting mad?”

“That!” Adora raises her voice, widens her eyes. It’s a step too far. “I don’t want to leave you like— like this! But this,” she says, “I know this is what I need. It’s what’s right.”

“Why does it have to in Los Angeles? Why can’t you just _stay_?” Catra asks, begs. There’s a single tear falling down her cheek. She doesn’t wipe it away.

“I can’t, Catra. This is—”

“What you want?” Catra interrupts her, finishes her sentence. The implication hangs there — _this is what you want. Not me._

Adora doesn’t answer. She stares hard at the table, like she could crack it in half with the force of her glare. They say artists make art from pain. She wonders if not everything should be made into art.

“I already signed it, Catra. Please,” Adora says, looking up at her, and Catra is watching her. It feels like the first time and the last time. Wide-eyed and waiting for her answer. She wishes it wasn’t so hard. “Please don’t make me choose.”

“Why don’t you just go, Adora?” Catra shuts her eyes when she asks. “Why don’t you just leave me while you’re at it?”

“I—” Maybe Adora didn’t know. Maybe there was a hint of fear somewhere in Catra. Maybe she proved it true. “I’m sorry.”

Catra doesn’t move.

Adora leaves the apartment.

Maybe she expected Catra to come after her — _I’m sorry I said that_ or _I don’t want you to leave_ — like the door shouldn’t close like that, like it was so final. Like the hallway shouldn’t be silent. Like the elevator shouldn’t be empty. But — it is. Oh, it really is.

This is what destruction looks like.)

**: : :**

Here’s the thing.

Adora knows what to do. It’s been on her mind. It’s been in every glance Bow and Glimmer have been sending her way. It’s been on Juliet’s sudden overwhelming presence

But she still acts like she doesn’t.

She doesn’t let anyone know. No one knows her mind is racing with thoughts like _I do care about you_ and _why do you think I stayed_ and _don’t you get it_ and—

She wonders if it’s written on her face. The inner turmoil. Everything.

And so it begins like this:

“Bow, Glimmer. I have something to tell you guys.” The two look up from the phones. They’re on their way to the Japanese division of Brightmoon Records for a video-call meeting with Angella. “I want… I want to postpone the tour. Like a break. For a week.”

She expects an argument, a protest, a—

A hug.

“Thank you,” Glimmer whispers to her ear, “Thank you for taking care of yourself.” Bow and Glimmer are all around her, their warmth as soothing as it is encouraging.

“I’m sorry I made you guys worry about me.” Adora hugs them tighter. “I know you guys only mean the best.”

She closes her eyes and sees Catra’s face. She’s been hiding in obligations and responsibilities, always the last in line, always wondering about others before herself. She’s been hiding long enough.

She's ready now.

**. . .**

Angella, surprisingly, agrees. They come up to the meeting room, the laptop and the projector already set up. Her voice and her hands were shaking when she proposed a break. Bow and Glimmer were holding both her hands through it all.

 _You deserve the rest,_ Angella’s voice comes through the speakers, _I’ll take care of everything._

She wonders if she may have done it sooner if she knew it was this easy.

**. . .**

“Where are you going?” Glimmer asks when Adora opens her hotel room. Her belongings are already packed and ready. Bow, behind Glimmer, is looking curiously at the scene.

Adora smiles. It’s the first one in a long time that she feels like it reaches her eyes without trying.

“I’m going home.”

**: : :**

(It was silent on the rooftop of their apartment building.

She knows she’ll remember this moment for years to come: the sunset on Catra’s cheeks; the taste of warm wine leaving a bitter aftertaste; the cold metal of the railings against her skin. Adora tries to drink in every part of Catra, every inch of her skin. Adora misses her even before she leaves.

She knows that when she’ll close her eyes during sleepless nights — she’ll see this. This moment will haunt her for years to come, hovering in the back of her mind like a ghost.

They cooked dinner together for the last time, waiting for the sunset to come. It was Adora’s favorite — but then again, she’ll love anything Catra will do. She tries to ingrain in her head all the things she will soon miss, right down to the very last detail. There were no familiar gestures. There was no music playing in the kitchen. She doesn’t wrap her arms around Catra when she cooks.

Instead, she looks at the tiles. The same ones they danced on for long nights and slow afternoons. There was the couch, the mismatched pillows, the table with the singular vase, the coffee maker, the picture frames, the windowsills, and the — the life they _made_ _together_ in their apartment; their theater; their café; their park; their antique shop; their planetarium.

It’s all theirs.

They’re made from failed baking attempts and late-evening picnics and confessions in cassette tapes and public libraries. They’re New York and they will be as long as they’re Catra and Adora because—

This is where Adora loved Catra. This is where Catra loved Adora back.

New York will always belong to them.

“I’ll miss you,” Adora whispers into the cold night air. The skyline looks back at them, yellow lights and the never-ending drone of cars. The city that knows all of their secrets — this is where she first kissed Catra, where she woke up beside Catra in their bedroom, where she will leave her — and oh, it’s never as easy as they made it to be. “I’ll always love you, Catra.”

Catra turns, looks at her. She knows she’s being slowly exposed with Catra’s stare, her clothes undressing in her eyes, showing her rib cages and her veins, the tremble of her chest and the pulse of her heart. Adora lets her.

“I’ll miss it all. I’ll miss this apartment. I’ll miss having a bad day at work and coming home to you. I’ll miss this city. I’ll miss all the places we’ve been to and never seen. I… I—”

“Stop it,” Catra finally speaks. Her voice sounds raw and unused. It sounds like it hurts. “Please stop.” There’s something in her voice that makes Adora look at her and she’s holding something and—

Oh.

It’s the cassette tape.

 _Heart_ , it mocks her. Adora knows it, can replicate the same hand strokes and the letters would always look the same. The marker she used was already hidden in the pockets of her shoulder bag.

“You… you don’t want it anymore?”

“No.”

It’s the feeling of being set on fire — you don’t know it until you’re burnt. It’s all about goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. Like there was nothing left to give, like it was wrung out until it’s empty and dry. Like there was no more love for Catra to give, like it was all wasted on Adora.

“But this is yours.” Adora pushes the cassette tape back to Catra. She looks Catra, looks at the dried traces of tears on her cheeks, tries to resists the urge to wipe it away—

—but she does.

“Adora, stop. I can’t— I can’t do this,” Catra whispers, sounding broken.

Adora obliges, moves back to her spot on the rooftop. She lets her hand fall from Catra’s face gently. Before it leaves her skin, Catra grabs her arm.

She kisses Adora.

Adora gives her all into the kiss. It contains all their history and the moments in between. Here is the music we’ve created. Here is the love we’ve made. Here are the arguments and miscommunications and make-up sex and being close enough to take away the loneliness. Here is where we end. Here is where you’ll leave me behind.

They break away. Catra is gripping Adora’s shoulders like her life depends on it. Maybe it does. Adora moves and kisses Catra’s neck, feeling her heartbeat.

This is a mistake they’re making.

This is the last mistake they’ll ever have the chance of making.

The night goes on as it should — it should have been fast, over and over and over until they’re sick of each other. It wasn’t. Adora almost cries as she kisses Catra’s inner thighs. She’ll miss her hands on her hair, messy and wild. She’ll miss Catra looking down at her with her eyes lidded, like it is the last time they’ll ever do this. Maybe it is.

They’re marking each other down to their very bones, permanent fixtures into their skin. _You’ll never forget me,_ it says. _You and I will never really be over._

When Catra’s breaths even out, Adora is still awake. Her mind is racing, saying, _this can’t end, this can’t end, this can’t be over, all the love I have left for you, all the love you have left for me, all of New York and all of the music, it can’t be over, it can’t_ —

It will.

She leaves before Catra wakes up.)

**: : :**

Adora doesn’t really know what to do in New York.

When she got out of her flight, a hastily booked ticket on a public flight, she didn’t have a plan. She hails a taxi as soon as she leaves the airport, and she’s dumbfounded when she was asked where she was going.

She doesn’t really know where Catra is.

Rattling off the first address that comes to her mind — their old apartment, she pays a huge tip when they get there. She runs to the receptionist. Adora doesn’t recognize her. Breathing hard, she slams her hands to the counter, but the receptionist doesn’t blink an eye.

“How may I help you?”

“Apartment 504.” Adora smiles at the receptionist, unaware that what she said doesn’t make sense.

“Will they be expecting anyone?”

“Uh, no.” Adora closes her eyes. “Catra. Is she here?”

“Catra?” The receptionist asks, flipping through the magazine she is reading. “Like as in, cat?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s no tenant here named after a cat.”

“Ugh,” Adora mutters under her breath. _It looks like there’s no other way._ “Look. I… I can give you an autograph if you let me in,” she says, taking off her sunglasses.

“Autograph?” The receptionist asks, chuckling. “Who do you think— oh.”

Adora smiles at her. “So do we have a deal?”

**. . .**

It’s a bit of a whiplash to Adora, walking down the familiar hallways. She’s hit with a collection of memories — coming up to the apartment building for the first time, coming here almost every day after school, leaving the building and wishing Catra would run after her. She tries not to let the memories devour her.

She stands in front of their old door. Almost nothing has changed — except for her. She knocks at the door. No answer. She’s about to knock again when—

“Yes?”

The door opens and her breath catches and—

—it’s not Catra.

The walls of the apartment are in different colors. They’re now in a light shade of green. There’s a bookshelf in place of their old record player. There’s the scent of apple pie hitting her nose. The woman in front of her is someone she doesn’t recognize.

“Does Catra live here?”

“I’ve never heard of that name before,” the woman answers. “I don’t think I met her, and she definitely doesn’t live here.” The woman starts to close the door.

Adora stops her. “Wait. Can… can I take a look around?”

“Why?”

“I— I used to live here. I just want to see it again one last time.” For some sense of closure, she thinks.

There must be something in her voice as the woman offers her a look of sympathy. She doesn’t say anything, only opens the door wide enough for Adora to enter.

Everything is different. There’s clearly a new home here, one that isn’t theirs anymore.

“Tea?”

“Sure,” Adora says. She smiles bashfully. “I’m sorry for being so rude, but I didn’t get your name.”

“I’m Mara.”

“Adora Grayskull,” she says. She almost slaps herself on the forehead when she says it. She braces herself for the—

“That’s a nice name.” Adora almost widens her eyes. The lack of recognition is unusually pleasant. “So what brings you here in New York?”

“I’m looking for a friend.” Adora takes the tea Mara gives her. “Well, not a friend-friend. An ex-friend. A friend that is also my ex— we’re not old friends. We’ve been reconnecting. So like, we were together, broke up, and now we’re friends again.” She winces at her word-vomit. “It’s complicated.”

“Sounds like it is.” Mara laughs. “So why are you looking for her?”

Adora takes a sip of the scalding-hot tea. “I…” She looks out the window, noting the different curtains. It’s now white. “I’ve done some things lately. Things I regret. I want to make it up to her,” she says, “I want to apologize.”

There’s a hand on her shoulder. Adora looks up to see Mara smiling at her. “I’ve only known you for like, five minutes but you look like you’ve been through a lot today — and it’s only eight in the morning. I’m sure you’ll figure something out. If you’re willing to go around and ask strangers like this, I’m pretty sure you can. You just have to look around. Maybe ask your mutual friends?”

Adora smiles. “Thank you. I’ll… I’ll be going now. Thank you for the tea.”

When Adora closes the door, she’s hit with a sudden realization.

She knows how she can find Catra.

**: : :**

(Bow, Glimmer, and Adora are inside her apartment. It was afternoon, the sun peeking through the blinds. The air was filled with nervousness and anxiety. Bow is on his laptop, constantly refreshing, while Adora is looking over Glimmer’s shoulder. They’re looking at Twitter.

“Oh my god, Adora. You’re shaking.” Glimmer stifles a laugh. “Like look at your hands.”

“I know. I think I’m about to throw up.”

“Ew.” Glimmer moves away from Adora, huddling closer to Bow. “Not on my shoulder.”

“Guys, stop!” Bow shushes the two of them. “You’re making me more nervous.”

Glimmer groans, throwing her head back. “Why do we even have to wait for it? It’s torture.” Glimmer looks at Adora, holding her arm. “Adora, ease up on the grip. You’re cutting off the blood flow from my hand.”

“Sorry. I’m just super—”

“Guys!” Bow jumps up, startling both Glimmer and Adora. “It’s here! Look!”

It was the Billboard Hot 100 chart.

They were number one.

**. . .**

“And The Alliance’s new single _Shot in the Dark_ finally reaches number one! This is their fifth number-one single. Impressive! Am I right, Mermista?” The radio announcer asks, and Catra nearly stops the car. Hands gripping the steering wheel, she listens carefully. “We will be playing _Shot in the Dark_ as the next song in three, two, one…”

It’s a song she hasn’t heard before. Adora’s voice comes through the car speakers. It’s a voice she hasn’t heard in a long, long time. Closing her eyes, she breathes in, breathes out. There’s a car honking behind her.

Stepping on the gas pedal, Catra rolls the windows down and gives the driver behind her the middle finger. Moving as slow as she can, she hears her phone vibrate. She presses answer, putting it between her shoulder and ear. It was her agent.

“Catra,” Hordak’s voice comes through, “Where are you? The designer and the crew is waiting. You’re late.”

“Don’t worry, Hordak.” Catra rolls up the windows. “I’m on my way.”

“What is that on the background?”

“Nothing,” she says, lowering the volume. “I’ll be there in ten.” Ending the call, she sees her other notifications, which was a sole text from Scorpia.

_Hey, wildcat :D I won tickets to a concert in Madison Square Garden in a raffle! It’s in a few days do you want to come with me!!_

Yeah. She'll answer it later.

When she puts down her phone, the silence becomes too all-encompassing. She turns on the radio — it was still Adora’s song. Catra grits her teeth.

She changes the station.)

**: : :**

“Why are you still here?” Catra asks, hands clenched at the sides.

“I am the director of this school, of course.” Hands folded on top of the table, Shadow Weaver, all through the years, is still the same. Still condescending. Still powerful. Of all the things that could change, Shadow Weaver seems to be a constant.

“Of course they'd pick someone like you,” Catra mutters under her breath.

“Why are you here, Catra? What brings you to this school again? Have you humbled yourself?”

“I'm supposed to be teaching the theater kids with their community play. Masterclass, as they said in the email.”

Shadow Weaver scrolls through her emails. “I don't recall sending one to you. Not that I'll ever think of it, with your qualifications.”

“I'm not seeking your approval anyway,” Catra spits. “Why do I even have to talk to you?”

“Because it's my job to oversee the people who will be teaching my students.” Shadow Weaver closes her emails, looking at Catra. She stands up and moves to Catra, cradling her jaw. “I have seen what you accomplished. Know that I have led you to those heights. I want you to know how—”

Catra slaps Shadow Weaver's hand away, standing up from her chair. She moves back, putting as much distance as she could between them. “Don't you dare touch me!” She turns around. “I don't owe any accomplishments to you. I— I achieved those on my own. I don't ever want to see your face again.”

Shadow Weaver laughs, haunting and menacing. “Oh, Catra. You're just like me. Eventually, when the time comes, you will—”

Catra shuts the door. She leans her head on it.

_I'm not like her. I won't ever be._

**. . .**

Catra’s rummaging around the backstage. She’s trying to find an old prop that she’s pretty sure wasn’t moved for years — judging by the look of this area. The boxes here were dusty, and touching it feels almost disgusting. But it brings a sense of nostalgia in her, and that makes her keep on looking.

“Holy shit!”

Catra stands up, her head hitting the shelf. _Well, that’s a first one._ She’s been over her head lately. It seems like her encounter with Shadow Weaver had coated her brain with fog. She doesn’t want to take it out on the kids, though.

Catra hopes they haven’t made a mess. She’s approaching the stage from behind. She’s about to move the curtains when she hears the faint sounds of a piano playing.

She’s heard the same notes before.

She’s been in this exact same moment. Her heartbeat picking up, Catra holds her breath, moves the curtain back and—

—she sees her.

There are words on the tip of her tongue, but the only words she can say is,

“Adora?”

**. . .**

Adora knew that if anyone in the world knew Catra more than she does — it would be Scorpia. And Scorpia _did_ know, in fact. Adora learned that Catra would be giving the kids a masterclass in their old high school, something about singing lessons and stage presence. With a tip to the taxi driver and another autograph to the guard, she was able to enter her old school.

When she entered the familiar theater, the grand piano in the same place as always, she knew she couldn’t help herself. She played _Heart_. Here it is, she says through the music, the things I failed to say. The apologies I need to make. I hope it isn’t too late.

Adora hadn’t really played this song on the piano for a long time, but her fingers know its way around a song she’s known for five years. The theater kids — like three of them, it’s pretty early — are surrounding her, but she asked them not to record her. To her surprise, they agree.

When she plays the last notes, she looks up.

Catra.

Just like that. In the same place, with the same expression. Only five years later and pages of history that no one will ever witness but them.

That’s how Adora knows the universe is bending itself for them.

They were never really over in the first place.

Adora stands up, walks over to Catra. Catra moves back but Adora moves forward, closing the curtains behind them. It’s a small bout of privacy they need right now.

“Why— why are you here?”

“I’m here for you. I told you, Catra, I would do anything for you,” Adora says. They’re both exhausted. They’re in New York City for the first time in a while, and it seems like it was the same. It still feels like the city belongs to them, calling their name, all for them.

“I…” Adora trails off, looking away. But she swallows, regains the courage again. “I wanted to see you again. I wanted—”

“I can’t do this.” Catra’s face twists. “Not here. Not now. I just— I can’t.”

“Catra,” Adora whispers, “I’m sorry. I know I have a lot to be sorry for.”

“No.” Catra shakes her head. “No, Adora, it’s too late.”

“Is it?” Adora asks, moving forward. “Is it too late?”

When Catra doesn’t answer, it feels like a knife twists in Adora’s heart. It drips slowly, to her shirt, to the ground. Adora looks to Catra’s eyes, says, “I know I hurt you. I’m sorry, god, I have so much to be sorry for.” She takes a breath. “I need it to hear it if you don’t want to but,” she pauses, biting her lip, “I still love you. I love you so much. I never… I never stopped loving you. Do I still have a chance? Can we start all over again?”

**. . .**

_Can we start all over again?_

Catra knows the moment is now. She takes a shaky breath, and her eyes sting with tears. Catra can’t recall a time Adora sounded this desperate. She was always sure. She was always Catra’s rock. To see it crumbling apart, all for her, it spreads a wildfire throughout her chest.

Catra looks at Adora, seeing her like this, resigned, hurt, hopeful. Asking for a second chance, asking for a second try. Honest, and stripped down. She isn’t the pop superstar who tours stadiums every year, sings songs that will inevitably reach the top of the charts, gets whatever she wants.

She was just Adora, Adora who wrote songs about her, who kissed her before she fell asleep at night, who loved her just like Catra does to her.

Catra knows this is the moment.

This is the moment that she knew.

She knew—

—that she would do it all over again.

She would always go back to the theater to see Adora for the first time. She would still spend hours watching baking videos to make a batch of cookies for Adora. She would still go inside dusty antique shops for hours on end to make Adora happy. She would still spend hours on a boat around _water_ so Adora’s surprise would be worth it. She would still sneak in planetariums and learn songs on the piano and hear her voice on the radio and see her from the crowd of the concert and spend her life being asked about being with Adora Grayskull.

If she moved to New York, seventeen again, she would do it all over again.

So she says it.

“I love you too.”

Adora’s eyes shut, hearing the words. Catra watches as she processes the words, eyes opening again.

Those blue eyes.

She would see those eyes for the first time in this theater, and she will let herself be vulnerable for the first time. She will feel what it is like to be loved by someone she loves, to be loved with all her flaws and her secrets and her regrets. She will see what it is like to live in the day, not in the darkness, and maybe,

Maybe she can do it again.

She lets Adora kiss her then, tasting like tears and a future and a second chance. It paints her world in colors, in pink and lavender and in sunset dreams. Catra’s crying and Adora is too, and Catra knows she thought she would never be able to kiss Adora again so she relishes in it. Adora’s hands are shaking when she cups her face, whispers _I love you I love you I love you_ again and again and again.

Catra’s pretty sure the students have heard everything they said.

She doesn’t care.

Catra kisses Adora again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! so that was the sixth chapter - wow! it's insane that there's one chapter left, it feels like yesterday i only started writing it.
> 
> it took the longest time to get this chapter right. i really wanted it to be as close to what i imagined it to be, and vv happy about the outcome. i hope you guys are too! btw can anyone tell i've been listening to folklore while writing this
> 
> thank you to jinnie and imsodon3 for keeping up with my spam ily!! and thank you so much for the kudos and the comments and everything. i truly appreciate it and i would absolutely love to know what you thought of this chapter! :)


	7. it's you or no one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here it is. the final chapter, the conclusion.
> 
> this is notes on fashion - i hope you enjoy.

( _I love you too,_ she says, she says despite knowing she’ll risk her heart again, despite all the odds. This is fate leading them, all back to Madison Square Garden and back to the theater of their old high school. How could they deny destiny, when it is laid out all in front of them?

When they open the curtains, the students act like they haven’t heard anything, going back to their phones. With a laugh and making them promise even though that’s a shaky bridge to cross on — maybe they’ll be alright.)

**: : :**

For now, they keep it a secret.

She’d sleep over at Catra’s apartment. There are a thousand clichés and hidden laughter that hurts their stomachs inside her apartment, like tasting her daydreams in colors, like bathing in the light of the morning sun.

Adora would wake up to Catra on top of her, wearing one of her oversized shirts with nothing underneath, the scent of pancakes when she’d breathe in and the sound of the coffee maker whirring in the background. Adora would kiss her, her arms at her hips. She’d whisper _I love you_ and she’d hear _I love you too_ in a kiss. She’d whisper _I’m still sorry_ and she’d hear _you’re still forgiven_. It was everything she could have wanted.

They would spend mornings like that, slow and soft and in love. Like seeing each other for the first time in years, hands exploring what they used to know, backs arching off the mattress. Adora would make Catra’s breath hitch at the back of her throat, tracing the line in Catra’s back, and it all feels easier somehow.

They would lay on top of the sheets. Catra would run her hand through Adora’s hair, and Adora would hold her other hand on top of her stomach. They would soon remember that Catra was actually cooking something and they’d laugh, go to the kitchen.

It was like Catra had changed what mornings meant to Adora now. They were falling in love again like they were seventeen, only for the second time, but it sounds like hummingbirds and tastes like honey and chamomile tea and it looks like her future.

(Their relationship — the two of them under unforgiving spotlights and paparazzi headlines and rumors that threaten to eat them alive — all kept a secret.

Before Adora leaves to continue the tour, it was their moment of reprieve.

They deserve it.)

It was well into the afternoon. They were at the café they used to be regulars in, back in high school.

It was different, in a way. There were new seats now, the blue umbrella with white stripes is hidden in a storage closet. The new owner was the son of the old one. Adora may not know him, but his eyes widen in recognition once Adora and Catra walk through the front door. All it took was an enormous tip and a promise.

“A milkshake and a basket of fries, please,” Catra says, not even reading the menu. She knew it well enough like the back of her hand.

She picks up on the implication immediately. “One?” Adora asks.

“As if you aren’t a hopeless romantic, Adora.”

“But you like it,” Adora says, grinning. “Don’t you?”

Adora pays before Catra could even take out her wallet ( _it’s our first date and I’m supposed to treat you right,_ Adora argues) and finds them a table at the back of the café. Since the place was empty, their order comes in a few minutes, their milkshake with two straws. They’re sitting next to each other, thighs brushing. This is them making up for the times they were apart, the proximity a compromise.

“So,” Catra starts, taking a fry out from the basket, “are we really just doing this now? Waiting to get caught?”

“We’re not trying to ‘get caught’,” Adora says. She moves forward, putting her elbows on the table. “That means we’re hiding — which, of course — we aren’t. We’re simply on the down-low. And I’m positive no one would think we’d be here on a weekday.”

“Well, what do you usually do on weekdays? Volunteer for community services? Party?”

“If I’m not off doing something for the band,” Adora says, “it’s time for myself. I appreciate my alone time, you know.”

“Alone time?” Catra stifles a laugh with her hand. “I didn’t know my girlfriend was a hermit who holes herself up during Mondays.”

Catra’s words make a fireball erupt in her chest, all heat and intense. “What did you say?”

Catra almost rolls her eyes. She knows Adora, knows all her games and all her ways to make Catra do what she wants and — yeah, maybe Catra will let her. “I said,” Catra drawls, “I didn’t know my _girlfriend_ was a hermit. A loner. Satisfied?”

“Girlfriend?” Adora asks, fiddling with her straw in the milkshake. “Is that what we are now?”

“Yeah,” Catra says casually, like she was reading off her grocery list for the week. “That’s what we are, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” Adora repeats. She lets go of the straw, puts her hand on top of Catra’s. She runs her thumb at the back of Catra’s hand. “Yeah, we are.”

“You know, sometimes I would listen to your songs,” Catra breathes out the confession, changing the topic. “When I had trouble sleeping, I’d listen to your voice. I really loved _Destiny_.”

“ _Destiny_? One of the singles?”

“Does that make me a fake fan?”

“No album tracks? Smells like a fake fan.”

“Does a fake fan do this?” Catra grabs Adora’s jaw and leans closer. Adora leans in, closes her eyes, anticipates a kiss. Catra stops. “Do you expect kisses from your fake fans?”

“When they’re you,” Adora whispers, “I do.”

And there, Adora kisses her, in the middle of a café in New York, a risk and a statement without even realizing it.

**. . .**

**adora please please meet and greet at pizza hut** @adorasblowdryer · 5m  
YALL MY BF JUST SAID ADORA AND CATRA WAS AT HIS CAFE I CANT STOP SHAKING AND CRYING....

 **ian** @bowbear17 · 4m  
 _Replying to_ @adorasblowdryer  
IS THIS LEGIT IS IT IS IT???? OHHHHH MY GOD. OH mY GODD&#^$*$(#

 **jhon** @pajamasglimmer · 4m  
 _Replying to_ @adorasblowdryer  
ARE tHEY ON A DATE. A FUCKING DATE

 **g** @giovannigio · 3m  
 _Replying to_ @adorasblowdryer  
“they said” “he said” …. the jig is up just say you want the likes and go

 **adora please please meet and greet at pizza hut** @adorasblowdryer · 2m  
 _Replying to_ @giovannigio  
if i wanted attention i would have just said it BUT IM LITERALLY SAYING THE TRUTH…..

 **jhon** @pajamasglimmer · 2m  
 _Replying to_ @adorasblowdryer _and_ @giovannigio  
Yeah. I kinda think you’re saying the truth….. omfg

**: : :**

(There’s Santorini and Portland and London and New York. Catra misses the places before even she leaves the cities. Adora is slowly slipping in her life again, weaving through the cracks and making a home for herself in the spaces Catra had made for her. It still fits. It still feels like she hadn’t left.

Catra enters the backstage of the stadium Adora is performing in — she’s careful not to be seen, but she hopes they will anyway. There’s publicity and fame and rumors in the game they’re playing. She hopes they’re holding the winning hand.

She’s rounding the corner when she sees Adora. She looks tired. She looks pretty in Catra’s eyes.

 _I was thinking that I’ll probably never get over you_.

**. . .**

Panic. Fear. Dread.

Catra never hoped that the day will eventually come — to see Adora on the hospital bed. She has her eyes closed. This anxiety makes Catra pace around her hotel room. She has been here for hours.

 _Catra_ , she hears Bow say. _Let me look over her. Why don’t you sleep? You need rest too._

Bow lets Catra sit on the chair he’s been sitting on. _Wait. Let me get something for you,_ he says. He comes back with a ham and cheese sandwich and green tea from the vending machine. It should taste bland. Instead, it tastes like concern. It tastes like caring for a friend.

She falls asleep a few minutes after finishing the meal.)

**: : :**

Adora goes back on tour.

The band performs in different countries in Asia — the Philippines, Indonesia, Malaysia, Singapore, and Thailand. Now, they’re currently in South Korea, in Seoul. This is the last tour date of their Asia leg. It’s past midnight, and she’s currently on FaceTime with Catra, hugging the pillow close to her chest.

“You look so sleepy. Did you just come from a party?” Catra asks, on her lunch break. They’re preparing for another fashion show, and Catra just finished eating her packed lunch. She’s sitting in her car, waiting for time to pass.

“No,” Adora says, “I’m just so sleepy. I just got here like, an hour ago. The rehearsals went terribly for some reason like— like we were a bit off-tune.”

“Oh,” Catra says, a tinge of disappointment coloring her voice. “I don’t want to keep you up if you’re tired, you can just—”

“No!” Adora interrupts Catra. “I wanted to talk to you before I fall asleep.”

Catra smiles. “Okay.”

(She knows Adora will probably fall asleep in a few minutes — but she doesn't say that. She'll let Adora have her moment.)

“So, how was your day?” Adora asks, the video lagging for a bit. Catra’s signal was terrible, but it doesn’t take away the warmth that blooms in her chest. It’s there, despite them being thousands of miles apart and the screen consisting of pixels and never the real thing.

“It hasn’t really started yet.” Adora looks confused for a second at Catra’s words, then it clicks.

“Oh! Yeah. Forgot time zones exist. Sorry. My brain isn’t working optimally right now.”

“It’s because you’re too much of a dork,” Catra teases, knowing all too well Adora is brilliant in every way. “Other than rehearsals, how was _your_ day?”

(Catra already knows. She won’t ever tell Adora, but she follows the band’s fans. She knows what they’re usually up to but — she lets Adora talk.)

“I woke up today and it was raining. Bow bet me ten dollars that I couldn’t run in the rain.” Adora smiles. “I’m ten dollars richer now. Once this tour is all over, I’ll treat you to some McDonald’s. Drinks on me,” Adora says. Catra could hear the grin in her voice without even seeing it.

“Oh, how sweet. I bet Glimmer thought the two of you looked stupid.”

“Yeah, she did,” Adora murmurs, nearly a moment away from sleep. “She did...” She trails off before she starts snoring as loud as humanly possible.

“You're such an idiot.” Catra smiles at the image in her phone, knowing that Adora doesn’t hear her. “I love you so much.”

 _I love you too._ Catra doesn't need to hear it. She already knows the answer.

**. . .**

They’re on the last song of their setlist. Adora feels the sweat drip down her neck to her shirt — she couldn’t be bothered to wipe it, too focused on playing the climax of their last song. The lights are flashing. The fans are screaming every word. The energy is palpable.

Adora looks up to the sky and sees fireworks exploding in the skies. Looking down, she can see the spotlights shine on her face. She feels invincible, and the three of them look at each other, reading each other’s cues, and finish the song in synchronization.

They bow for the fans, then they run backstage. Adora gets a towel a stagehand gives her, and drinks the rest of the water in her bottle.

“Good show?”

Adora turns around to the sound of the voice and—

“Catra?”

With a smirk, Catra struts over to her, from her corner in the backstage area. “You have anybody else greeting you after a show?”

“No one.” Adora watches as Catra stands up to her tiptoes and gives her a kiss. “Just you.”

“Good.”

“So,” Adora starts, letting her hands settle around Catra’s waist. “Thought you were in New York. How and why are you here?”

“I missed you,” Catra says. “That’s the only reason.”

“Get a room.” A sweaty towel is thrown to Adora’s face. “The two of you are gross.”

“This towel is gross,” Adora says as she plucks the towel off of her face. “Why this towel?

“I had to stop it.” Glimmer shrugs, taking the towel off Adora’s hands. “You have a dressing room, Adora. Go use it.”

“Let’s just go to your hotel room.” Trailing a finger across Adora’s jawline, she asks, “You guys don’t share hotel rooms, right?”

“Thankfully, no,” Glimmer says.

Catra pushes Adora lightly. “Take a shower first. Sparkles is right. You’re all gross and sweaty.”

**. . .**

The two of them almost leave the stadium, but they’re stopped by Juliet. _There are fans waiting outside the stadium. You need to cover yourselves up,_ she says. Now, donning sunglasses at midnight and two layers of hoodies and a snapback to top it all off, they’re about to enter their van.

“Why do we even need two hoodies?” Catra asks. “It’s not like the second hoodie offers more ear protection against the screams of fans.

“You look good in it.”

“Don’t trip over yourself trying to flatter me, Adora.”

“What, and not fall for you?”

“God. One more awful line, Adora. I will literally throw myself out of this van,” Glimmer says, putting her hands over her ears. “Why couldn’t we get another van?”

“It’s their honeymoon phase, Glimmer,” Bow says, smiling at the discourse. “Look at them. They’re so cute!”

“So, like, when are you guys going to reveal this?” Glimmer asks, looking at the two of them.

“Well,” Adora trails off, “I don’t know, actually.”

“When it feels right.” Catra takes Adora’s hand, squeezing it.

Adora smiles at Catra, knowing that one day their secret little bubble will pop, but she takes comfort in the fact that whatever life will throw at them next, she’ll be with Catra.

She knows they’ll be alright.

**. . .**

**LIAM SAW THE ALLIANCE** @adoraimnida · 3m  
HHGNFNSNMS THERE WERR FOUR OF YHEM WHEN THEY WENT TO THEIR VAN. FOUR NOT THREE

 **adora please vlog your arm day** @catradoraverse · 2m  
 _Replying to_ @adoraimnida  
sis their bodyguard

 **LIAM SAW THE ALLIANCE** @adoraimnida · 2m  
 _Replying to_ @catradoraverse  
NOOOO LIKE.......... ADORA WAS WITH SOMEONE ELSE. LIKE SHE WAS HOLDING HANDS WITH SOMEONE

 **adora please vlog your arm day** @catradoraverse · 1m  
 _Replying to_ @adoraimnida  
HGNNNN MAYBE CATRA? CATRA? CATRADORA? OMG. NO ONE TALK TO MAE

 **LIAM SAW THE ALLIANCE** @adoraimnida · now  
 _Replying to_ @catradoraverse  
SISSS SHE FLEW TO SEOUL FOR HER?? THE ABSOLUTE ROMANCE WE JUST CANT STOP WINNING

**: : :**

(There has been five shots of tequila Catra had downed. She’s not a drinker, but — but it feels like there’s nothing more she wants than to _forget_.

There’s a woman next to her, but she has brown short hair and she has green eyes and an accent, and she’s not Adora. She’s not Adora — she’s not the same woman that tilts Catra’s world with a touch and eyes like the rivers that run through New York and the voice she’s been hearing in her dreams and — she stands up and leaves without a word.

_You need to learn how to selfish. To take what you want. Don’t you want me, Adora?_

**. . .**

She wakes up disoriented and warm and sick. She knows her presence before Catra even opens her eyes. There was something different, in the way Adora wouldn’t look at Catra’s eyes and the fact that her back is turned on her. She lets Adora talk, answer her questions. Catra cuts off the conversation before Adora could talk about the past—

Instead, she makes a compromise.

_Friends?_

It’s a start.)

**: : :**

Catra’s alarm blares in the morning — waking only Catra fully. Adora shuffles, turns over to her side and pulls Catra closer.

“Five more minutes,” she mumbles into Catra’s neck. She can feel the coldness of the hotel room. It didn’t matter, though. There was Catra next to her, and that’s more than enough.

“Get up sleepyhead. You have to go to your show’s tech rehearsals today,” Catra says, shaking Adora’s arm.

Adora groans in response, cracks one eye open. “Do you really have to leave today?”

Catra is almost struck with wonder from the way the sunlight pouring from the hotel room’s windows hits Adora. The covers are draped over her skin and her hair is all messed up and her arm is over Catra’s bare stomach. She used to think her bed was the only thing worth sleeping on — maybe it was all about finding the one to fall asleep with.

“What, are you forcing me to stay?” Catra asks, her voice bordering on teasing. Adora doesn’t know yet but — Catra had already changed her ticket. She’ll be here until they leave Seoul.

“Stay with me.” She drowsily tucks her head to Catra’s neck, pulling her impossibly closer. “Don’t leave.”

Catra runs her hands through Adora’s hair — it’s a rare time to see it without the ponytail, trails a finger to Adora’s chin, making her look up at Catra.

“Why don’t you convince me?”

(Adora did end up late to the rehearsal. It was becoming more frequent — but with Adora smiling like that, Bow and Glimmer can’t really find it in themselves to mind.)

**. . .**

**catra** **✓** @catra · 10m  
just bought new curtains from home depot. oh yeah i'm the new face of @guess too, ft. @therealadoragrayskull

 **CATRADORA UPDATES** @CatradoraNews · 9m  
 _Replying to_ @catra  
OH MY GOD I CANT BRETHAJDNSOSKN I CANT BELIEVE THIS IM NOT READY HELP ME FM+$;#(#7)$/

 **quinoa a hate crime** @maygrayskull · 8m  
 _Replying to_ @catra  
WAITTTTT OMFGGGLOSING MY SHIT THE TWO OF YOU ARE SO HOT... cultural reset actually

 **i'm 6'7 catra notice me** @vegansforcatra · 7m  
 _Replying to_ @catra  
THIS IS OPENING UP MY THIRD EYE GOT ME LEVITATING... THIS JUST DOES NOT FEEL REAL OMG

**. . .**

After the announcement of Catra’s Spring 2020 Collection for _Guess_ , the band’s management decided to release the music video one week after. The day before it releases, they teased a five-second video of Adora and Catra on the band’s Twitter account. The quality was degraded enough to be questionable, but their silhouettes were unmistakable.

The five-second video garners three million views, four hundred thousand likes, and a hundred thousand retweets overnight. Adora couldn’t even open her app on her phone when it released — it always crashes the second it loads.

“A five-second video. That’s all it takes,” Adora says, looking through Twitter with her laptop.

They’re at the lobby of their hotel, having opted for the breakfast buffet. It was early enough that there weren’t many people in the area, and they were bold enough to risk it.

Catra turns a page from a book she brought with her, her hair still wet from their shared shower ( _we’re being environmentally-friendly,_ Adora says, _we have to save water_ ). She’s trying to ignore Adora, who’s wolfing down a tall stack of pancakes. _Can’t forget the coffee,_ Adora says as she downs it in sugar and creamer.

“Your coffee at this point is more sugar than actual coffee. How do you have abs?” Catra asks, face twisting to something akin to disgust. “This is why we’re keeping the relationship a secret.”

Adora laughs, looking up from the screen. “It’s the body’s fuel. But like, back to the topic, it’s still blowing my mind that a five-second video can make fans go insane.”

“Well of course,” Catra says, “it’s about you. Your fans will go crazy about anything related to you.”

“And it’s about you too,” Adora replies, nudging Catra’s foot. Catra nudges back softly. “You sure you don’t want breakfast?”

“I’ll eat later. Or take whatever you don’t finish.” Catra puts a bookmark between the pages she’s currently in. “I have an idea. Do you want to tease the fans a little bit more?”

Adora grins — it’s exactly the kind of plan she wants to make. “What are you planning?”

**. . .**

**Adora Grayskull** **✓** @therealadoragrayskull · 30m

and i was made for you

 **10.8K** Retweets **72K** Likes

**. . .**

**catra** **✓** @catra · 3m  
i know you'll be tender with my heart

 **jessie (not j)** @adorascherries · 2m  
 _Replying to_ @catra  
WAIT WAIT WAITTTTTTTT THE ALLIANCE REFERENCE??????? IS THIS FOR ADORA EYE SHE JUST TWEETED LYRICS EARLIER

 **daaan ADORA FOLLOWS** @catrayearseve · 1m  
 _Replying to_ @catra  
THE WAY I GASPED….. THIS INDIRECT IS KILLINGMEE$&*#&*#&* MAAM DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOURE DOING?!!!!!

 **aaisha #STREAMHEART** @glimmernuggets · now  
 _Replying to_ @catrayearseve _and_ @catra  
SIS SHE KNOWS WHAT SHES DOING TO US!!!!!

**. . .**

After their second and last show in Seoul, they have a flight at the crack of dawn. Of course, this should mean sleeping early. But for Glimmer and Bow, it means dragging Adora and Catra to an after-party.

Adora can’t even remember where they went. All she knows is that she’s in a club with purple neon lights around her. She’s sitting on a red couch, the club dark enough for her to become almost unnoticeable. She’s holding a glass of scotch, but she has barely drunk from it.

She looks around and sees Catra walking towards her, a drink on each hand. “Hey,” Adora says, “Where were you? I was waiting for a while.”

Catra hands her a drink, a glass of coke. “Bathroom. Thought you wouldn’t be in the mood to drink.” Catra sits down next to her. The club is cold, and Adora could see the goosebumps on Catra’s skin.

“Thanks. Are you cold? You can wear my jacket.” Adora takes off her jacket — a beige, cotton one. She pauses. There’s a memory that strikes her.

She’s been here before — no, not the same club — like there’s a memory that repeats itself. It’s just different. There is no woman all over her, no exhaustion that threatens to take her to the hospital. She’s not alone; Catra sitting next to her. She’s drinking a glass of white wine, not a glass of martini.

Not too long ago, she feels like there was a life she had missed out on. Maybe this was it.

“Catradora! Get over here!”

Someone is calling them out. Catra groans but obliges, standing up. She looks back at Adora, holding out a hand. “You coming?”

Adora smiles at her, takes it. “Of course I am.”

**. . .**

“You can’t beat me, I’m the pool master!” Sea Hawk exclaims, pointing to himself, Mermista groaning behind him. How did he end up here, Adora doesn’t know. Glimmer and Bow were already intoxicated beyond belief. _Oh, they’ll be a nightmare during the flight,_ she thinks.

“Oh!” Bow says, clapping his hands together. “I’m betting on Adora! Ten dollars!”

Catra stifles a laugh, hiding it with her hand. “Ten dollars? Wow, Adora. It looks like your friend here has _so_ much faith in you.”

“One hundred.” Glimmer slams the money on the pool table. “Adora will beat you.”

“Okay, okay,” Adora says, raises her hands up. “When did we agree that I’m playing pool? Like— like when did we talk about that?” Adora laughs nervously. “I haven’t played in like, months.”

“But you were so good last time!” Glimmer exclaims.

“Yeah, Adora. Are you really going to disappoint your biggest fans? There are _millions_ of dollars on the line.” Catra smirks, crossing her arms.

“You got this!” Bow says, taking out his phone to record it.

“I’m not sure,” Adora mutters, scratching the back of her head. She’s… a bit rusty. She doesn’t really want to embarrass herself. Even though more than half of the people around her won’t remember a thing that happens tomorrow, she still doesn’t want to do it.

“I’ll use the handkerchief tonight,” Catra whispers to her ear. Adora swallows. She looks around, sees Sea Hawk posing on the pool table with Mermista unfortunately being forced to be his photographer. Catra steps back.

Adora breathes out, walking over to the pool table. She leans over the table, her mind on Catra’s words.

She takes the shot.

(She ends up winning the game.

 _I don’t think it was possible to hate an object this much,_ Adora says, tugging on the handkerchief.

 _So,_ Catra whispers in her ear, sitting on Adora’s lap. _Are we going to switch?_ Catra’s words sinking in, her eyes darken, letting Catra untie the handkerchief.

They almost don’t make it to their flights.)

**: : :**

(“Can we meet somewhere tomorrow?” Catra watches Adora, looking like the end of summer, looking like the remains of a forest fire.

There’s something painful about how Adora looks in Catra’s eyes — maybe it was the look in her eyes, the way they look tired and exhausted. Maybe it was in the way she held herself, like they were strangers in the backstage of a dressing room. Maybe it was because they weren’t who they used to be anymore.

Warfare is forging in the back of Catra’s mind. There’s a choice she could make here. There’s a path, laid out for her to walk on.

She’ll let the wild lead her to wherever it will go — and it ends up sounding like, “I’ll text you.”

**. . .**

There are things Catra notices — Adora’s expensive trench coat, the lingering stares Adora pierces into her skin, the words that accidentally slip past Adora’s mouth ( _There’s nothing I won’t do for you_ and _I do I care about you_ and _she’s beautiful_ , each one like a root crawling back up in Catra’s walls, in Catra’s heart) — and at the end, she stands up and offers a hand.

Adora looks at her hand like it was a treasure buried underneath the earth, like she was walking on the surface of the moon without a spacesuit, like picking up broken shards of glass. Catra flexes it, pulling back. The rejection seems to sting harder than she thought it would. She supposes she should be used to it.

Adora stands up, pulls Catra close. Closer than she’s been in years. After letting the moment sink in, she closes her eyes, breathes in Adora’s scent, and letting her hold her even though there are pages of mistakes waiting to be addressed in between them.

It’s been five years since Catra had Adora in her arms and—

—it still feels like Adora contains the beating heart of New York.

She wonders why she ever let herself believe it wasn’t.)

**: : :**

“God, Adora. One more word about Catra and I will literally rip your head off.” Glimmer pauses from shifting through the clothes rack. They’re currently doing the European leg of the tour — their first one being in London. “Like go ahead, rub it in. You’re in love.”

“Glimmer,” Adora says, teasingly, “I love you. You love me. Isn’t that enough?”

“Wipe that stupid dopey smile off your face first. And that’s not what I’m talking about.” Glimmer takes a dress, holding it by its hanger. “Does this color fit me?”

Adora stares blankly at the dress, then at Glimmer. “Does it matter?” Adora asks. “I mean— it’s just a dress.”

Glimmer puts her palm to her face. “You know, for someone who is literally dating a model, you’re clueless about fashion.”

“I like fashion!” Adora defends herself. “That color is _exquisite_ ,” she says, botching the pronunciation. “Pleasing for the eyes,” she adds with a British accent. It was horrible enough that the only person who isn’t an employee in the extremely overpriced (in Adora’s honest opinion) high-end clothing store gives her a glare. Glimmer gives the stranger an apologetic look.

“Okay, you gushing about your new love life is better than hearing you botch an accent from a place we’re currently in.” Glimmer puts the dress back to the rack. “Never do that again, please.”

Adora ignores the jab. “Since we’re talking about love lives,” Adora trails off, “how are you and Bow going along?”

Glimmer groans. “Not this. We’re going. This is Catra rubbing off on you.”

“Come on,” Adora pleads, “I think it’s been some time since we’ve hung out alone. We _have_ to talk about this.”

“It’s twelve in the afternoon,” Glimmer says, walking out with Adora trailing behind her. “We should be talking about where we’ll be eating for lunch.”

“That is such a cop-out.” Adora laughs at Glimmer’s avoidance of the subject. “I say we should just go to that small bistro we passed by earlier. Less people.”

“It’s not a cop-out!” Glimmer defends herself. “We just haven’t talked about it yet. Wait.” Glimmer pauses. “Do you think he thinks we’re just friends?”

“I think you should ask him that question. Not me. But I guess if—”

“Hold on.” Glimmer holds out a hand, hitting Adora’s stomach. They both pause from walking. Glimmer takes her phone out from her pocket. “Mom just texted me. Did she message you too?”

“Uh,” Adora mutters, taking out her phone. “I haven’t received any… oh.” She stares at the email.

She’s in _so_ much trouble.

**. . .**

_The video is blurry. The club is dim, the only light illuminating the room is coming from the neon signs. It makes it look more degraded than it should. The way the video is shot makes it clear that the person is drunk_ — _shaky and unstable._

_“Go, Glimmer!” The voice, clearly belonging to Bow, films Glimmer at the bar. There’s a round of shots on the table. Glimmer groans._

_“You’re going to pay for this in the morning,” she says to Bow, pointing at the camera. There’s a fond look in her eyes. She blinks and looks back at the shot glasses, and drinks one straight. There are people whooping, and Bow moves the camera around, showing off the crowd._

_If paused at the right moment, at the right time, there’s a blonde at the corner, talking to someone off-camera. Adora is close enough to be recognizable, far enough to question what she’s doing. Her hands, if looked at hard enough, are on someone’s waist, but then again, one could be mistaken._

The video circulates the internet immediately.

**. . .**

_Liked by_ **catradoratickets** _and_ **6,739,020 others  
theseahawkshow **ADVENTURE AT SEOUL!  
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 **versacecatra** HOLD UP… CHECK THE BACKGROUND. DO YALL SEE WHAT I SEE???#$&*$^*#  
 **asongofcatradoras** OHH MY GOD OGHHH MY GODDDD CATRA AND ADORA!!!!!! CATRADORA!!!!!!!!! HOLY SHIT SHOLY SHIT*#$(#*&(*#@ IM FFREAKINGOUTT

**. . .**

“Glimmer.” Adora couldn’t stop staring at her phone. “You know your mom. From this email, how mad is she? From like, a scale of one to ten.”

“One being like, not mad? Then ten would be super mad?” Glimmer asks. “Or is it the opposite? I can’t even tell. Does that mean anything?”

“Oh my god,” Adora says, “I’m in so much trouble. What do I do? Do I call her or what?”

“What about don’t?” Glimmer turns to her. “Let her simmer down or something.”

“Are you saying just ignore it until she calls us for a meeting? Because I for sure,” Adora says, pointing to herself, “can totally roll with that.”

“So there were only two posts,” Glimmer mutters, scrolling through her phone, “but knowing our fans, they probably have it spread all across the different apps.” She turns off her phone, pocketing it. “At this point, I won’t even be surprised.”

“What’s the first post?”

“Bow’s story. When he moves the phone around the club. You’re like, the only blonde there so I guess it didn’t take a genius to figure it out. The second one was Sea Hawk.”

Adora exhales. “Of course it was Sea Hawk.”

“Well, it’s the cost of being reckless.” Glimmer looks at her. “How are you feeling?”

“I don’t really feel anything, if I’m being honest,” Adora says.

There wasn’t the familiar wave of anxiety that threatens to wash over her. No burning pit in her chest, opening up a hole through its unbearable heat. No ground splitting in half and eating her alive.

Instead — instead, with the truth finally coming up from the darkness, she feels light. Like the rays of the sun between tree branches. Like climbing up the rocks of the harbor and feeling the wind blow your hair. Like surfacing from holding your breath underwater.

_How does she feel?_

She feels like she’s finally alive.

**. . .**

There’s a booming voice around the studio, _SPILL YOUR GUTS OR FILL YOUR GUTS_ , and the audience cheers along with it. After everything calms down, Adora hears the host, a kid named Frosta (honestly? Adora doesn’t get it either), introduce them. “Welcome back! I’m Frosta, and our next guest is the worldwide sensation, The Alliance!”

A drum fill. The doors open, and the three walk in. They walk over to the table that was set up for them, waving to the crowd as they wave back.

“Glimmer, Bow, Adora.” Frosta nods at all of them. “Any thoughts before we start?”

“Currently rethinking all my life decisions,” Glimmer answers without missing a beat.

“I’m actually a bit excited about this?” Adora says, coming off as more of a question. She takes a sip from the glass of water on the table.

“You won’t be saying that later when you’re forced to eat a bug,” Glimmer says.

“For now.” Adora puts the glass back. “I never said I couldn’t change my mind.”

“Sure, sure,” Frosta says dismissively. “What we have here is a wheel of different items — I’ll be spinning and wherever the pin lands on, all three of you will have to eat. I’ll be asking questions and if one of you can’t answer, all three have to eat or drink whatever is chosen. Ready?”

“No,” Glimmer mutters.

“For our first one,” Frosta says, ignoring Glimmer. She spins the wheel, landing on _thousand-year-old eggnog_.

“That sounds horrible,” Bow comments, looking as the plates are set in front of them.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Our first question is for,” Frosta says, going through her cue cards, “Adora.” _Oh god,_ she thinks. “You three were currently awarded the Artist of the Decade. For your performance, you said, I quote, “No matter how much time flies by, in every year, every month, every day, this song will always be for you.” Who is this person?”

“Oh, she’s _so_ not going to answer this.”

“Wait.” Adora pauses. “Is this a trial, or is this the real thing?”

“The real thing,” Frosta says.

“Right.” Adora chuckles, looking at Bow and Glimmer, who look disappointed in her.

“Adora, no…” Bow mutters.

“It’s just a sip, guys.”

“**** it,” Glimmer says, a beep coming from the speakers. “Oh, wait. We’re on television.” Glimmer takes a sip from the eggnog, closing her eyes. “Oh, yeah. Definitely worse than it looks.”

Adora laughs, takes a sip as well. “God, why does it taste like that?”

The show goes on, Bow getting asked _which country has the worst fan base right now?_ and Glimmer being asked _will you admit we’re best friends right now?_ until it comes back to her.

“Okay, Adora. There was a recent trend in social media this week, and it was about you. So,” Frosta pauses for dramatic effect, “Are you currently single right now?”

Grimacing internally, she braces herself and drinks the bird saliva without a word. Putting it down, she says, “I’m definitely not going to answer that.”

**. . .**

They’re in Paris for the next tour date and coincidentally, Catra is there. They’re currently in the apartment Catra is renting for the time — she’s there for this year’s Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. Along with other artists, The Alliance was invited to perform for one of the show’s segments.

Catra is on her tiptoes, looking through the cupboards. Adora watches her, then turns back to the banana she’s currently chopping.

“What are you trying to find?” Adora asks.

“I’m finding the pack of coffee beans somewhere in this stupid cupboard.” There’s a thud. “I don’t want to drink any more of your smoothies.” Catra finally locates the pack and pulls it out, walking to the coffee maker, going past Adora.

“Oh!” Adora exclaims, not really cutting herself, but wringing her hand in fake pain.

“What?” Catra comes over. “What happened?” Catra grabs Adora’s hand, then sees nothing. “You’re such an asshole!” She slaps the back of Adora’s head, then going back to the coffee maker.

“You really do care for me,” Adora teases, “Does that mean you like _like_ me?”

Catra rolls her eyes. “Of course I do, dumbass. Do you want me to tweet that out?”

Adora stops her motions, pausing. “Do you want to?”

“I mean…” Catra trails off, thinking. “I mean the pictures are already out there. It’s not really a secret anymore.”

“Well,” Adora breathes out, “I’ll be with you. Whatever you want to do.”

Catra smiles, a plan forming in her head. “I think I have an idea.”

**. . .**

And this is how it happens:

With Angella’s final call, everything is set in stone. Before them, the pink carpet of the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. She’s watching Adora, wearing a tailored _Saint Laurent_ navy two-piece suit, an unbuttoned silk white shirt tucked in navy pants with a matching blazer. There’s Bow and there’s Glimmer next to her and — and she understands why they’re so adored.

In the midst of all the energy threatening to break in the area, they’re standing there, commanding the attention of everyone around them. There, Catra sees Adora — the worldwide sensation, the unreachable celebrity, the famed pop star — and sees their bouncer give her a cue.

It’s time.

In a custom _Alexander McQueen_ suit, all made only for her, a blazer without a shirt underneath, trousers paired with heels, she walks to Adora as Bow and Glimmer leave the carpet.

Adora smiles at her as she makes her way over, and there are screams erupting from the paparazzi. The camera flashes increase tenfold, but Adora’s arm is secured around Catra’s shoulders, Catra wrapping her arm around Adora’s waist — _to the left! Catra! To the left! Adora, look here!_ — Catra watches as the crowd goes insane. The people around them stop to watch.

Adora turns away from the cameras, looks at Catra. “I love you,” she whispers. “You ready?”

The world falls away as Adora brushes a strand behind Catra’s ear. Catra leans her head up, closing her eyes — soon, she couldn’t hear the screams and the camera shutters, there were no blinding lights and pink carpets, there were no people around them, just them, just her and Adora, only them.

They kiss in front of the crowd.

Catra would have it no other way.

**. . .**

“Wow, they’re really going all-in for this,” Glimmer comments with a chuckle, shaking her head as they watch the crowd react to Adora and Catra.

“Yeah,” Bow agrees, “I’m glad Adora finally admitted her feelings. She deserves to be happy.”

Glimmer swallows. Adora’s talk with her, she’s been thinking about the words to say, the words she shouldn’t say, the words she should. “Bow,” she says, “I have something to say.” Bow hums in response. “I like you. I like _like_ you.”

Glimmer watches emotions flit over Bow’s face, confusion in his eyes. “Wait… aren’t we together?”

“What?” Glimmer asks. “We’re together?”

“All this time,” Bow says, turning to her, “You thought we were only friends?”

“I— I thought you didn’t feel the same way,” Glimmer says.

“Of course I do.” Bow presses a kiss to Glimmer’s forehead. “You’re my best friend. You’re— you’re like… my soulmate.”

“The two of you are together?” A reporter says, scribbling eagerly into a notepad. Glimmer takes the pen they were holding and throws it as far as she can behind her.

“Don’t ever publish that.”

**. . .**

As the minutes count down before the show, the backstage becomes more frenzied and hectic. This is where the magic comes alive, like before the reveal of a card trick, the unveiling of a new exhibit. There were flashes of photographers and interviewers asking questions and insiders coming in.

Catra’s letting Perfuma, one of the lead designers of this show, take a look at her final outfit. Just like in every show, sometimes there are last-minute changes in designs. There was something Perfuma didn’t like, and she’s asking one of the other renowned stylists for a second opinion.

“You’re hitting the big leagues, huh,” Catra says, trying to make small talk. “Milan Fashion Week and now this.”

“It’s really an honor,” Perfuma says, albeit distractedly. “I think the earrings need to be changed. The silver ones go better with it.”

“Okay,” she mutters. Catra lets one of the assistants change her earrings. “You’ve been pretty close with Scorpia, too, right?”

“Scorpia?” Perfuma blinks at her. “Of course! She’s such a good person. No matter what, she’ll wear her heart on her sleeve — that’s such an admirable trait.”

Catra smiles. There’s a warmness in her bones, blooming in her chest, happiness for her own friend. Scorpia, her best friend, the one who took Adora’s place when she left, the one who carved a place in Catra’s heart even though Catra didn’t make room for it at first. And now, Catra found love again.

She sees it in Scorpia’s new happiness. She hopes Perfuma may feel the same way — Scorpia deserves love too.

“Yeah,” Catra agrees. “She’s a good person.”

**. . .**

“Please welcome, The Alliance!”

The runway lights up in pink colors — the ceiling mirrors are outlined with pink LED lights, the rest of the stage pitch black. Images of roses appear on the stage-wide screens. There’s a spotlight for the three of them, and Adora fixes the microphone stand in front of her. There’s another crew member to play her bass synthesizer. For this performance, she’ll be walking on the stage without an instrument.

Counting down in their heads, Glimmer starts to play the guitar riff. They’re performing _Shot in the Dark_ — _Heart_ was too slow of a song for the fashion show.

 _Stand by for the first model,_ she hears in her headpiece. _In three, two, one._

Adora sings the first lines and the first model walks down the runway. She can hear the bass pulsing through the room, the drums an infectious rhythm. Adora looks at the camera, and the model passes by her, winking at her. She smiles back.

She takes the microphone from the stand and walks to the side of the runway, hearing the familiar chords of the pre-chorus. Adora’s neck rises with goosebumps. She knows who’s coming down the runway.

 _I’m taking a shot in the dark,_ she sings, turning around, _so why don’t you come home with me?_

Catra.

There she is, wearing a long-sleeved crop top that exposes her stomach, leggings to pair with it. There’s a pattern of pink and yellow flowers printed on the fabric, similar to the flowers displayed on the screen. Her hips sway as she walks down the runway, locks eyes with Adora and smirks.

As affection washes over her, Adora extends a hand. Catra takes it and lets Adora twirl her around, letting go after. Adora’s eyes drop for a second, coming back up as Catra poses at the end of the walk.

When Catra turns back and they lock eyes again, Catra offers her a wink.

Adora can tell Catra knows what she’s doing to her.

**. . .**

They go backstage after their performance — they’re the second-to-the-last performers for the night. She’s turning around when she hears Bow say, “Sure. Don’t get lost.”

Adora watches Bow smile at Glimmer, the same fond smile she gives Catra. Glimmer rounds a corner, disappearing from their sight. Adora sees an opportunity.

“What was _that_?” Adora asks, bumping Bow’s shoulder. There’s a teasing smile playing in her lips.

Bow shakes his head, bumping back harder. “Nothing.”

“Are you two finally together?” Adora can’t hold back her grin. She suddenly understands why they love teasing her about Catra so much. _This is fun,_ she thinks.

There’s an unfamiliar blush in Bow’s cheeks as he scratches the back of his head. “Yeah.”

“It feels good, right?”

“You know what?” Bow asks. “It does.”

**. . .**

Glimmer turns around the corridor, passing the models’ general dressing room. She has absolutely no idea where the bathrooms are.

“Oh. It’s you.” Glimmer turns around and sees Catra, smirking and leaning against the wall. “What’s got you smiling like that? You look like you’re about to shit a rainbow.”

“It’s called being in a relationship,” Glimmer answers, “I think you know that feeling very well.”

Catra shakes her head, ignores the comment. “Where are you going?”

“I’m trying to find the women’s bathrooms.”

“Well, you’re at the dressing rooms.” Catra motions around her. “Lost?”

“I am.” Glimmer lets out a huff, crossing her arms. “Anyway, did you want to talk about something?”

Catra diverts her eyes, looking at the floor. She stands up straight and looks into Glimmer’s eyes. “There’s… there’s something I want to do. I need your help.”

**: : :**

(“Here we are. We’re at Madison Square Garden.” Adora feels Bow and Glimmer’s arms on her shoulders, the three of them forming a circle. “I’ll start. I’m so thankful. Thankful that your mom gave me a chance that night in New York. Thankful that I joined the two of you to form a band. I’ll never stop being thankful.”

“ _Adora_ ,” Bow says, “You’re making me tear up. We’re grateful for you too, you know.” He tightens his hold on Adora’s shoulder. “The three of us — you, me, Glimmer — we’re The Alliance.”

“We’re lucky to be doing this with you.” Glimmer smiles. Adora feels a lump in her throat — she’s so grateful. She hides it behind a laugh, and it sounds genuine. There’s something in the back of her mind. Maybe it’s because it’s been a long time since she’s been in New York. Maybe it’s because she’s homesick.

“Let’s do this then.” Adora extends a hand, Glimmer and Bow putting theirs on top of each other. They can hear the deafening sound of the crowd chanting, waiting for them. They can feel the adrenaline pulsing in their veins. They’re ready to perform.

But — but she can feel the heavy weight of the headpiece on her neck. It’s easy to pretend as if there wasn’t something hovering behind her, a distant memory that threatens to surface. _Maybe she’ll be here,_ the voice thinks. It’s bittersweet and it’s a possibility and it’s a part of her that hopes too much.

Adora almost called her, almost told her she was coming home.

She forgets that it isn’t anymore.

**. . .**

Catra watches her from the bar. She tries to drink in every detail she forgot. Maybe it was her horrid taste in alcohol, maybe it was the way she leans back when she feels uncomfortable, or maybe it was just her.

Looking at Adora leaves a sour taste in Catra’s mouth. It was like reaching the mountain tops when the sun had already set. It was like a voyage burning before it left the docks. It was like waking up before remembering the dream. Looking at Adora hurts.

Catra watches the woman in front of her, watches her fingers hook around Adora’s belt loop. She takes a sip from her martini. She wonders if she’s doing the right thing.

Catra doesn’t know it yet but — this will be the day she sets destiny in motion. This is where she’ll command gravity to move around them, controlling the pressure in the atmosphere, rearrange the clouds in the sky and the stars in black holes and in the clusters of galaxies.

“I’ll make you relax,” Catra hears the woman say, “ _Fuck_. You’re—”

“—in my seat.”

This is where it all begins again — after the epilogue of their story.)

**: : :**

The show director, Adora wasn’t properly introduced yet, had rented out a hotel rooftop after the show. It was full of A-List celebrities, the set designers, the models, and the performers. She was in the VIP area, closed off from the public. She’s sitting near the bar, watching Bow and Glimmer at the pool drinking fruity cocktails. She smiles at the sight before—

The music stops.

There’s a tap on the microphone. “Hello? Hello?” Adora looks up and sees Bow’s friend. Entrapta. She’s the regular DJ at _Stage 48_ in New York. Knotting her forehead, her curiosity piques. “This next request is for…” Entrapta narrows her eyes, moving the small piece of paper closer to her face. “ _Mozart. You will always have my heart._ ” She pauses. “How romantic! This next song is called _Heart_ by The Alliance!”

Adora hears the familiar notes of the song’s beginning. She looks across the room, sees her.

Catra.

She’s there, watching her. It’s not a memory, it’s not her eyes deceiving her. It’s real and she’s living in it and she’d have it no other way.

“Adora.” Catra reaches out and captures her wrist in her palm. There is no one who will interrupt them. There are no secrets that will be kept, no looking over shoulders, no fear of being exposed. There’s no fear in her chest. There’s just— love. Affection. Warmth.

It was just the two of them: Adora and Catra. Catra and Adora. It was music being written before you have someone to write about, it was walking down runways and fashion shows but never having a destination. It was style and music dancing around each other, interwoven with their past and history, like a cacophony of glamour, like notes on fashion.

Catra walks over to her, and — and it’s like Adora is seventeen, behind a piano and writing about nothing; and she’s eighteen, a thunderstorm brewing outside their apartment and badly baked chocolate chip cookies in front of her; and she’s nineteen, signing a contract she’s too young to understand and leaving all she’s ever known; and she’s in her twenties, and everything has changed but the same time it hasn’t. They’re still Adora and Catra, but there are mistakes they have grown past now, apologies that are still being forgiven.

And maybe it was true. Maybe it was true that in every sense of the word — she was made for Catra, and Catra was made for her. How could it not be true, with the way her hands lock with Catra’s and her body fits with hers? How could it not be true, that the universe has created someone who is made for Adora in every way possible? Why does the world seem to revolve around the two of them whenever she touches Catra, if it doesn’t mean a thing?

The song goes on. Adora pulls Catra close, leaning their foreheads together.

“You did this?” Adora asks in a whisper, fond laughter in her voice. She couldn’t shake the love that colors her words if she tried.

“Yeah. Yeah, I did,” Catra says, running her hand along Adora’s cheek. People are looking at them. There’s someone who must’ve took a picture by now. Adora finds that she doesn’t mind.

“Why?”

“This is me thanking you for keeping your promise since the day we met.” Catra smiles. “You didn’t leave me alone.”

Adora might have seen what destruction looks like — and she’ll see it rebuild itself again.

**. . .**

The confession comes tumbling out of Adora like this.

It was during a morning show, and they were promoting and performing _Heart_ there. Before they would perform though, they had an interview with the two talk show hosts on their (uncomfortable) couch. They were showing a picture on the television screen beside them — Adora and Catra on the pink carpet.

“So, now it’s confirmed then, the two of you are really together?”

There’s laughter in Adora’s voice as she says, “Yes. We are, in fact, together.”

Catra is curled up, watching the show on her couch. Adora leans by the doorframe, looking for her reaction. Catra turns and smiles at her, and Adora couldn’t help but smile back.

It was real. They didn’t have to hide anymore.

**. . .**

“So,” Glimmer starts, “I brought it. How are you feeling?”

Catra sniffs, leaning back on her chair. “Like the ground is going to eat me alive. Like I could fall down along with an avalanche.”

“Catra,” Glimmer says, tone serious enough to make Catra look up. “She loves you.” She puts a hand on Catra’s shoulder.

Catra shifts in her seat, taking the small black leather box Glimmer gives her. “But what if she says no?”

“You don’t have to do it now. There’s always time. But if you do, you’ll always be a part of our family. Whatever her answer is — but I do know is that,” Glimmer says, sitting down next to Catra, “I think you already know her answer.”

Catra smiles. “Thank you. You’re— you’re a good person.”

Glimmer’s face breaks into a teasing grin. “What? I’m sorry. I don’t think I heard you properly. Can you repeat that again?”

Catra rolls her eyes. “You’re a good person. Are you happy? I—”

“ _Aw_ , Catra.” Glimmer brings Catra close, hugging her. “Take care of her. Adora deserves it as much as you do.”

**. . .**

There’s a singular spotlight gleaming down on her. Her fingers are on top of the strings, muting it with her hand. It was an acoustic Taylor, one that Catra had given her before she performed on stage. There are thousands of people before her, on the stage of a sold-out Wembley Stadium. She’ll be playing their new song — entitled _Promise_.

She begins by strumming the first chords of the song. There used to be a time where her world stops whenever she plays a new song. There’s the uncertainty and the lack of control over what people will feel, the dread of falling short from expectations. But now — there’s a new wave of nervousness that washes over her, emotions flowing like the low tides.

There’s a weight in her shoulders — her headpiece — and inside her pocket.

There’s a future hidden in there, Adora thinks. When she imagines the future, all she sees are her friends, her music, and Catra. Catra and her hand over hers when she drives the highways. Catra and choosing the apples or the peaches in a farmer’s market, brown sun hats and laughter in her ears. Catra and the firelight reflecting on her face, the drone of the bumblebees and the sand on their toes. When she imagines the future, she thinks of lazy afternoons and record players and rooftop evenings and making a home again — together, together, together.

She wants it all. She wants the house and the white picket fence and the cats and the hardwood floors and the summer road trips and the furniture and Catra.

But for now — she is meant to be here. This is where she is supposed to be. There were no more questions.

She opens her eyes, turns to her side, and sees her.

The same eyes she has known for ten years, blue and yellow. They’re next to each other, surrounded by thousands of eyes, strangers who will never know the history of Adora and Catra, one that began on a weekday in New York, extending far across the city and beyond.

She’s looking at Adora, her smile in her eyes and in her lips. She’s looking at Adora like she loves her — and it’s because she does — like there are words in her eyes that seem to say _I would do this all over again_ and _please, don’t leave me_ and _I do care about you_ and _I love you too_. She’s looking Adora like this is a song they made together, and it’s because it is.

 _Because I love you, and I'll be your always,_ the lyrics say. Stripped down to its barest bones, it is nothing more than the truth. _I'll be the first thing you see in the morning, I'll keep that promise._

She remembers that day in Madison Square Garden. That day, she yearned for a time when it was all simple. Maybe she could have stayed. Maybe she could have finished college. Maybe she could have had Catra all along but—

Now, there is nothing that Adora would change. With Glimmer playing along with her and Bow with his drums, it feels right. There was no what if’s and what could’ve been’s, no waiting to be found and no voice in the back of her mind. With Catra next to her, maybe she won’t be afraid of what the future holds. Maybe she won’t be afraid of falling. Maybe she’s learned to live with what life has to offer, to let the world take her where she needs to go.

They have all the time in the world.

And if this is what fashion will look like today, tomorrow, the week after, the month after, the years after, when she’s old, when she’s retired, when she’s home, then—

My god, does she _love_ fashion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh. wow. i can't believe i wrote that? it feels surreal. this chapter had been on my mind ever since i wrote the first chapter. i can't believe it's over.
> 
> i just want to tell you guys - it has been years since i had written anything after facing months and months worth of writer's block. i promised myself, when i write again, i'd write something close to my heart. i did. fun fact: did you guys know there wasn't supposed to be any angst in the story? and that catra wasn't supposed to be a model at the start? i wrote that plot point when i wrote the very first scene of this story, and there was a runway show playing in the background. so, that happened.
> 
> i'd like to thank jinnie, who was the final push in me publishing the first chapter, and imsodon3, who kept up with my texts even tho you're on the other side of the world lmfao. and of course, i'd like to thank you. if you've been here since the start, or came somewhere along the way, or just now, thank you! thank you for your kudos, your comments, your bookmarks, or even just for reading. sometimes it was the only thing that kept me writing.
> 
> so yeah. i love she-ra. this definitely won't be the last time i'd write for them again. but for this fic, for the last time, i'd love to know what you think! of this story, of this chapter. thank you very much.


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